MAKAR'S  DREAM 

by 

VLADIMIR  KOROLENKO 


Translated  by 

MARIAN  FELL 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MAKAR'S  DREAM 

AND   OTHER   STORIES 


VLADIMIR   KOROLENKO 


MAKAR'S  DREAM 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

VLADIMIR  KOROLENKO 


TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   RUSSIAN   WITH  AN 
INTRODUCTION   BY 

MARIAN    FELL 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
DUFFIELD   &  CO. 


SRLff 


INTRODUCTION 


VLADIMIR  KOROLENKO 

THE  writings  of  Vladimir  Korolenko  have  been 
likened  to  "a  fresh  breeze  blowing  through  the  heavy 
air  of  a  hospital."  The  hospital  is  the  pessimistic 
literature  of  the  modern  Russian  intellectuals;  the 
fresh  breeze  is  the  voice  of  the  simple-hearted  chil- 
dren of  "Mother  Russia."  These  are  for  the  most 
part  tillers  of  the  soil  and  conquerors  of  waste 
places ;  peasants,  pioneers,  and  Siberian  exiles ;  they 
often  belong  to  the  great  class  of  "the  insulted  and 
the  injured":  they  suffer  untold  hardships,  but  their 
heads  are  unbowed  and  their  hearts  are  full  of  cour- 
age and  the  desire  for  justice.  Among  them  the 
great  writer's  early  life  was  spent. 

Vladimir  Korolenko  was  born  on  June  15th,  1853, 
in  Zhitomir,  a  small  town  in  Southwestern  or  Little 
Russia.  On  his  father's  side  he  came  of  an  old  Cos- 
sack family,  his  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  Polish 
landowner  of  Zhitomir.  The  boy's  early  life  was 
spent  amidst  picturesque  surroundings;  he  grew 
up  among  the  Poles,  Jews,  and  light-hearted,  dark- 
eyed  peasants  that  make  up  the  population  of  Little 
Russia,  and  he  never  lost  the  poetic  love  of  nature 
and  the  wholesome  sense  of  humour  that  were  nur- 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

tured  in  him  under  those  warm,  bright  skies.  In  his 
story  entitled  "In  Bad  Company"  he  has  vividly  de- 
scribed the  romantic  little  town  that  was  the  home  of 
his  childhood.  The  stern  but  just  judge  of  that  tale 
is  more  or  less  the  prototype  of  his  own  father.  The 
elder  Korolenko  was  distinguished  for  an  impeccable 
honesty  of  practice  rare  in  an  official  of  those  times ; 
consequently,  when  he  died  in  1870,  he  left  his  widow 
and  five  children  without  the  slightest  means  of  sup- 
port. Thanks,  however,  to  the  energy  of  his  heroic 
mother,  Vladimir  was  enabled  at  seventeen  to  enter 
the  School  of  Technology  in  Petrograd. 

Then  followed  three  years  of  struggle  to  combine 
his  schooling  with  the  necessity  for  earning  a  living, 
during  which  Korolenko  himself  says  that  he  does 
not  know  how  he  managed  to  escape  starvation. 
Even  a  cheap  dinner  of  eighteen  copecks  or  nine 
cents  was  such  a  luxury  to  him  in  those  days  that 
he  only  treated  himself  to  it  six  or  seven  times  during 
the  course  of  one  whole  year. 

In  1874  the  young  student  went  to  Moscow  with 
ten  hard-earned  roubles  in  his  pocket  and  entered 
the  Petrovski  Academy,  but  he  was  soon  expelled 
from  that  seat  of  learning  for  presenting  a  petition 
from  his  fellow-students  to  the  Director  of  the  Col- 
lege. He  returned  to  Petrograd  where  his  family 
were  now  living,  and  he  and  his  brother  made  a  des- 
perate attempt  to  support  themselves  and  their 
brothers  and  sisters  by  proof-reading.  The  future 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

author  began  sending  articles  to  the  newspapers  and 
magazines,  and  it  was  then  that  occurred  the  first  of 
the  series  of  arrests  to  which  he  was  subjected  for 
what  were  considered  his  advanced  social  doctrines. 
He  was  sent  first  to  Kronstadt  for  a  year  and  then 
to  Viatka;  thence  he  travelled  to  Perm,  and  from 
Perm  to  Tomsk;  at  last  he  was  finally  exiled  to  the 
distant  eastern  Siberian  province  of  Yakutsk. 

There  he  spent  nearly  six  years,  the  most  valuable, 
to  him,  of  his  whole  life.  The  vast  forest  that  clothes 
those  far  northeastern  marshes,  grand,  gloomy,  and 
held  forever  in  the  grip  of  a  deadly  cold,  made  an 
indelible  impression  on  the  imagination  of  the  young 
artist.  He  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  sorrows 
of  the  half-savage  pioneers  inhabiting  its  trackless 
solitudes,  by  the  indomitable  spirit  of  his  fellow-ex- 
iles, and  by  the  adventurous  life  of  the  "brodiagi" 
or  wanderers,  convicts  escaped  from  prison  who  re- 
turn secretly  on  foot  to  their  "Mother  Russia" 
across  the  whole  breadth  of  the  Siberian  continent. 

Korolenko  was  released  from  exile  in  1885,  and 
immediately  on  his  return  to  Russia  published  his 
beautiful  "Makar's  Dream." 

The  success  of  the  story  was  immediate,  the  fame 
of  the  author  was  at  once  assured.  No  politics,  no 
social  doctrines  were  here;  the  appeal  of  Makar's 
plea  was  universal;  liberal  and  conservative  critics 
alike  united  in  a  chorus  of  praise.  The  Russian 
reading  public  was  charmed  by  the  originality  of  the 


x  INTRODUCTION 

subject,  the  radiant  conciseness  of  the  author's  style, 
and  the  lyric  beauty  of  the  story's  end  which  illumi- 
nates with  deep  significance  every  detail  that  has 
gone  before.  Poor  Makar,  most  lonely  dweller  in 
the  Siberian  forest,  leading  a  life  of  incredible  la- 
bour and  hardship,  finally  dies,  and  for  his  sins  is 
condemned  at  the  Judgment  of  the  Great  Toyon,  or 
Chief,  to  suffer  in  the  life  hereafter  sorrows  and  toil 
more  grievous  than  any  he  has  known  on  earth.  Here 
is  the  type  of  "the  insulted  and  the  injured"  beloved 
of  Dostoievsky  and  Tolstoi,  but  with  one  supreme 
difference :  Makar  does  not  suffer  misfortune  in  pas- 
sive dejection,  he  protests.  He  protests  indignantly 
against  the  injustice  of  the  judgment  of  the  Great 
Toyon.  Life  for  him  has  been  desperately  hard;  it 
is  unjust  to  judge  him  by  the  standards  set  for  the 
righteous  whom  the  Toyon  loves,  "whose  faces  are 
bathed  in  perfume  and  whose  garments  are  sewn  by 
other  hands  than  their  own."  This  protest,  com- 
bined with  a  warm  love  for  all  humanity,  was  to  be- 
come the  keynote  of  Korolenko's  writings. 

His  next  story,  "In  Bad  Company,"  appeared  in 
the  same  year,  and  added  still  more  to  the  young 
author's  popularity.  It  is  a  general  favourite  in 
Russia  to  this  day.  Though  its  style  is  slightly 
tainted  with  a  flowery  Polish  exuberance,  the  de- 
scriptions of  the  old  feudal  ruins  are  full  of  poetry, 
the  children  are  drawn  with  sympathy  and  insight, 
and  the  vagabond  Turkevich,  in  his  tragi-comic  role 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

of  the  Prophet  Jeremiah,  sounds  an  unmistakable 
note  of  protest. 

"The  Murmuring  Forest"  was  published  in  1886, 
and  is  a  darkly  romantic  tale  of  the  dreaming  pine 
forests  of  Southern  Russia,  written  in  the  style  of 
an  ancient  legend.  Here  the  protest  of  the  Cossack 
Opanas  and  the  forester  Raman  is  blind  and  rude 
and  brings  death  to  their  highborn  oppressor,  but 
the  plot  is  laid  in  feudal  times  and  the  need  of  the 
serfs  was  great.  The  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  tree- 
tops  dominates  the  unfolding  of  the  simple  story  like 
a  resonant  chord,  and  when  at  last  fierce  justice  is 
done  to  the  tyrant  Count,  its  advent  seems  as  in- 
evitable as  the  breaking  of  the  thunder-storm  that, 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  tale,  has  been  brewing 
over  the  forest. 

"The  Day  of  Atonement"  is  one  of  Korolenko's 
lightest  and  gayest  stories.  In  describing  the  merry 
life  of  the  South,  the  Little  Russian's  kindly  humour 
joins  hands  with  his  glowing  imagination,  and  we 
have  a  vivid  glimpse  of  a  cosy  village  surrounded  by 
cherry  gardens  and  bathed  in  warm  moonlight;  of 
black-eyed  girls,  of  timid,  bustling  Jews,  of  super- 
stitious townsmen,  of  a  canny  miller;  in  short,  of  all 
the  busy,  active  life  of  a  town  within  the  Jewish  Pale. 

But  grave  or  gay,  merry  or  sad,  Korolenko  is 
above  all  things  an  optimist  in  his  outlook  on  the 
world.  Through  thick  and  thin,  through  sorrow  and 
misfortune,  the  poor,  artless  heroes  of  his  stories  all 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

turn  their  faces  towards  the  light.  The  writer's  kind 
heart  never  ceases  its  search  for  the  "eternally  hu- 
man" in  every  man,  and  deeply  does  he  sympathise 
with  mankind's  unquenchable  desire  for  freedom  and 
justice,  which  can  face  evil  unafraid.  He  him- 
self has  said  in  a  letter  to  a  friend :  "The  Universe 
is  not  the  sport  of  accidental  forces.  Determinism, 
Evolution,  and  all  other  theories  lead  one  to  confess 
that  there  is  a  law  which  is  drawing  us  toward  some- 
thing; toward  something  which  we  call  'good'  in  all 
its  manifestations,  that  is  to  say  toward  kindness, 
truth,  right,  beauty,  and  justice." 

That  is  the  burden  of  Korolenko's  message  to  the 
world,  embodied  in  all  his  writings. 

On  his  return  from  Siberia,  Korolenko  went  to  live 
in  Nijni-Novgorod  and  there  took  an  active  part  in 
bettering  the  conditions  of  life  among  "the  insulted 
and  the  injured"  whom  he  loved.  In  a  year  of  fam- 
ine he  worked  hard  to  organise  free  kitchens  for  the 
starving  poor,  and  many  energetic  articles  from 
his  pen  were  published  in  the  papers.  He  also  con- 
tinued to  produce  stories,  sketches,  and  several 
longer  novels,  of  which  the  best  known  is  the  "Blind 
Musician." 

In  1894  he  made  a  journey  to  England  and 
America,  and  on  his  return  wrote  an  amusing  record 
of  his  travels  entitled:  "Without  a  Tongue." 

In  1895  he  became  the  editor  of  the  magazine, 
Russkoye  Bogatsvo,  and  since  that  date  the  great 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

story  writer  has  definitely  devoted  himself  to  jour- 
nalism, and  has  now  become  one  of  Russia's  greatest 
publicists. 

The  Russian  heart  is  essentially  charitable  and 
full  of  human  kindness.  Thoroughly  democratic  in 
their  relations  with  one  another,  the  Russian  people 
have  the  misfortune  to  labour  under  the  harshest 
political  regime  in  Europe.  Like  many  of  his 
countrymen,  Korolenko  now  devotes  his  life  to 
the  cause  of  the  suffering  and  the  downtrodden,  and 
to  helping  those  who  are  the  victims  of  social  and 
political  injustice. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION         ......  v 

MAKAR'S  DREAM     ......  1 

THE  MURMURING  FOREST        ....  49 

IN  BAD  COMPANY  ......  89 

THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT  191 


MAKAR'S   DREAM 


MAKAR'S  DREAM 

A  CHRISTMAS  STORY 

THIS  dream  was  dreamed  by  poor  Makar,  who  herded 
his  calves  in  a  stern  and  distant  land,  by  that  same 
Makar  upon  whose  head  all  troubles  are  said  to 
fall. 

Makar's  birth  place  was  the  lonely  village  of  Chal- 
gan, lost  in  the  far  forests  of  Yakutsk.  His  parents 
and  grandparents  had  wrested  a  strip  of  land  from 
the  forest,  and  their  courage  had  not  failed  even 
when  the  dark  thickets  still  stood  about  them  like 
a  hostile  wrll.  Rail  fences  began  to  stretch  across 
the  clearing;  small,  smoky  huts  began  to  crowd 
thickly  upon  it ;  hay  and  straw  stacks  sprang  up ; 
and  at  last,  from  a  knoll  in  the  centre  of  the  en- 
campment, a  church  spire  had  shot  toward  heaven 
like  a  banner  of  victory. 

Chalgan  had  become  a  village. 

But  while  Makar's  forbears  had  been  striving  with 
the  forest,  burning  it  with  fire  and  hewing  it  with 
steel,  they  themselves  had  slowly  become  savage 
in  their  turn.  They  married  Yakut  women,  spoke 
the  language  of  the  Yakuts,  adopted  their  customs, 
and  gradually  in  them  the  characteristics  of  the 
Great  Russian  race  had  been  obliterated  and  lost. 

Nevertheless,  my  Makar  firmly  believed  that  he 
was  a  Russian  peasant  of  Chalgan,  and  not  a  nomad 

3 


4  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

Yakut.  In  Chalgan  he  had  been  born,  there  he  had 
lived  and  there  he  meant  to  die.  He  was  very  proud 
of  his  birth  and  station,  and  when  he  wished  to 
vilify  his  fellow-townsmen  would  call  them  "heathen 
Yakuts,"  though  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  he  dif- 
fered from  them  neither  in  habits  nor  manner  of 
living.  He  seldom  spoke  Russian  and,  when  he  did, 
spoke  it  badly.  He  dressed  in  skins,  wore  "torbas" 
on  his  feet,  ate  dough-cakes  and  drank  brick-tea, 
supplemented  on  holidays  and  special  occasions  with 
as  much  cooked  butter  as  happened  to  be  on  the 
table  before  him.  He  could  ride  very  skilfully  on  an 
ox,  and  when  he  fell  ill  he  always  summoned  a  wizard, 
who  would  go  mad  and  spring  at  him,  gnashing  his 
teeth,  hoping  to  frighten  the  malady  out  of  his  pa- 
tient and  so  drive  it  away. 

Makar  worked  desperately  hard,  lived  in  poverty, 
and  suffered  from  hunger  and  cold.  Had  he  a 
thought  beyond  his  unceasing  anxiety  to  obtain  his 
dough-cakes  and  brick- tea?  Yes,  he  had. 

When  he  was  drunk,  he  would  weep  and  cry :  "Oh, 
Lord  my  God,  what  a  life!"  sometimes  adding  that 
he  would  like  to  give  it  all  up  and  go  up  on  to  the 
"mountain."  There  he  need  neither  sow  nor  reap, 
nor  cut  and  haul  wood,  nor  even  grind  grain  on  a 
hand  millstone.  He  would  "be  saved,"  that  was  all. 
He  did  not  know  exactly  where  the  mountain  was, 
nor  what  it  was  like,  he  only  knew  that  there  was 
such  a  place,  and  that  it  was  somewhere  far  away, 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  5 

so  far  that  there  not  even  the  District  Policeman 
could  find  him.  Of  course  there  he  would  pay  no 
taxes. 

When  sober  he  abandoned  these  thoughts,  realising 
perchance  the  impossibility  of  finding  that  beautiful 
mountain,  but  when  drunk  he  grew  bolder.  Admit- 
ting that  he  might  not  find  that  particular  moun- 
tain, but  some  other,  he  would  say :  "In  that  case  I 
should  die."  But  he  was  prepared  to  start,  neverthe- 
less. If  he  did  not  carry  out  his  intention,  it  was 
because  the  Tartars  in  the  village  always  sold  him 
vile  vodka  with  an  infusion  of  mahorka  *  for 
strength,  and  this  quickly  made  him  ill  and  laid  him 
by  the  heels. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  Makar  knew  that  to- 
morrow would  be  a  great  holiday.  This  being  the 
case,  he  was  overpowered  with  a  longing  for  drink, 
but  to  drink  there  was  nothing.  His  resources  were 
at  an  end.  His  flour  was  all  gone,  he  was  already 
in  debt  to  the  village  merchants  and  Tartars,  yet 
to-morrow  was  a  great  holiday,  he  would  not  be 
able  to  work,  what  could  he  do  if  he  did  not  get 
drunk?  This  reflection  made  him  unhappy.  What  a 
life  it  was !  He  had  not  even  one  bottle  of  vodka  to 
drink  on  the  great  winter  holiday. 

Then  a  happy  thought  came  to  him.  He  got  up 
and  put  on  his  ragged  fur  coat.  His  wife,  a  sturdy, 

*  Mahorka:  a  very  cheap  smoking  mixture  made  from  the  stems 
of  tobacco. 


6  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

sinewy  woman,  remarkably  strong  and  equally  re- 
markably ugly,  who  saw  through  all  his  simple  wiles, 
guessed  his  intentions  as  usual. 

"Where  are  you  going,  you  wretch?  To  drink 
vodka  alone?" 

"Be  quiet.  I'm  going  to  buy  one  bottle.  We'll 
drink  it  together  to-morrow." 

He  gave  her  a  sly  wink  and  clapped  her  on  the 
shoulder  with  such  force  that  she  staggered.  A 
woman's  heart  is  like  that;  though  she  knew  that 
Makar  was  deceiving  her,  she  surrendered  to  the 
charms  of  that  conjugal  caress. 

He  went  out  of  the  house,  caught  his  old  piebald 
pony  in  the  courtyard,  led  him  by  the  mane  to  the 
sleigh,  and  put  him  in  harness.  The  piebald  soon 
carried  Makar  through  the  gates  and  then  stopped 
and  looked  enquiringly  at  his  Master,  who  was  sit- 
ting plunged  in  thought.  At  this  Makar  pulled  the 
left  rein,  and  drove  away  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
village. 

On  the  edge  of  the  village  stood  a  little  hut  out 
of  which,  as  out  of  the  other  huts,  the  smoke  of  a 
little  fire  rose  high,  high  into  the  air,  veiling  the 
bright  moon  and  the  white,  glittering  hosts  of  stars. 
The  flames  crackled  merrily  and  sparkled  through 
the  dim  icicles  that  hung  about  the  doorway.  All 
was  quiet  inside  the  courtyard  gates. 

Strangers  from  a  foreign  land  lived  here.  How 
they  had  come,  what  tempest  had  cast  them  up  in 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  7 

that  lonely  clearing,  Makar  knew  not,  neither  cared 
to  know,  but  he  liked  to  trade  with  them,  for  they 
neither  pressed  him  too  hard  nor  insisted  upon  pay- 
ment. 

On  entering  the  hut,  Makar  went  straight  to  the 
fireplace  and  stretched  out  his  frozen  hands  over  the 
blaze,  crying  "Tcha"  to  explain  how  the  frost  had 
nipped  him. 

The  foreigners  were  at  home;  a  candle  was  burn- 
ing on  the  table  although  no  work  was  being  done. 
One  man  was  lying  on  the  bed  blowing  rings  of 
smoke,  pensively  following  their  winding  curves  with 
his  eyes,  and  intertwining  with  them  the  long  threads 
of  his  thoughts. 

The  other  was  sitting  over  the  fire  thoughtfully 
watching  the  sparks  that  crept  across  the  burning 
wood. 

"Hello !"  said  Makar,  to  break  the  oppressive  si- 
lence. 

He  did  not  know — how  should  he — the  sadness  that 
filled  the  hearts  of  the  two  strangers,  the  memories 
that  crowded  their  brains  that  evening,  the  visions 
they  saw  in  the  fantastic  play  of  fire  and  smoke.  Be- 
sides, he  had  troubles  of  his  own. 

The  young  man  who  sat  by  the  chimney  raised 
his  head  and  looked  at  Makar  with  puzzled  eyes,  as 
if  not  recognising  him.  Then,  with  a  shake  of  his 
head,  he  quickly  got  up  from  his  chair. 


8  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

"Ah,  good  evening,  good  evening,  Makar.  Good. 
Will  you  have  tea  with  us?" 

"Tea?"  Makar  repeated  after  him.  "That's  good. 
That's  good,  brother;  that's  fine." 

He  began  quickly  to  take  off  his  things.  Once 
free  of  his  fur  coat  and  cap  he  felt  more  at  his 
ease,  and,  seeing  the  red  coals  already  glowing  in  the 
samovar,  he  turned  to  the  young  man  with  exagger- 
ated enthusiasm. 

"I  like  you,  that  is  the  truth.  I  like  you  so,  so 
very  much;  at  night  I  don't  sleep " 

The  stranger  turned,  and  a  bitter  smile  crept  over 
his  face. 

"You  like  me,  do  you?"  he  asked.  "What  do  you 
want?" 

"Business,"  Makar  answered.  "But  how  did  you 
know?" 

"All  right.    When  I've  had  tea  I'll  tell  you." 

As  his  hosts  themselves  had  offered  him  tea,  Makar 
thought  the  moment  opportune  to  press  the  point 
farther. 

"Have  you  any  roast  meat?"  he  asked.    "I  like  it." 

"No,  we  haven't." 

"Well,  never  mind,"  replied  Makar  soothingly. 
"We'll  have  that  some  other  time,  won't  we?"  And 
he  repeated  his  question:  "We'll  have  that  some 
other  time?" 

"Very  well." 

Makar  now  considered  that  the   strangers  owed 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  9 

him  a  piece  of  roast  meat,  and  he  never  failed  to 
collect  a  debt  of  this  kind. 

Another  hour  found  him  seated  once  more  in  his 
sled,  having  made  one  whole  rouble  by  selling  five 
loads  of  wood  in  advance  on  fairly  good  terms. 
Now,  although  he  had  vowed  and  sworn  not  to  drink 
up  the  money  until  to-morrow,  he  nevertheless  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  so  without  delay.  What  odds? 
The  pleasure  ahead  silenced  the  voice  of  his  con- 
science; he  even  forgot  the  cruel  drubbing  in  store 
for  his  drunken  self  from  his  wife,  the  faithful  and 
the  deceived. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Makar?"  called  the 
stranger  laughing,  as  Makar's  horse,  instead  of 
going  straight  ahead,  turned  off  to  the  left  in  the 
direction  of  the  Tartar  settlement. 

"Whoa !  Whoa  !  Will  you  look  where  the  brute 
is  going?"  cried  Makar  to  exculpate  himself,  tugging 
hard  at  the  left  rein  nevertheless  and  slyly  slapping 
his  pony's  side  with  the  right. 

The  clever  little  horse  stumbled  patiently  away  in 
the  direction  required  by  his  master,  and  the  scrap- 
ing of  the  runners  soon  stopped  in  front  of  a  Tartar 
house. 

At  the  gate  stood  several  horses  with  high-peaked 
Yakut  saddles  on  their  backs. 

The  air  in  the  crowded  hut  was  stifling  and  hot; 
a  dense  cloud  of  acrid  mahorka  smoke  hung  in  the 


10  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

air  and  wound  slowly  up  the  chimney.  Yakut  visi- 
tors were  sitting  on  benches  about  the  room  or  had 
clustered  around  the  tables  set  with  mugs  full  of 
vodka.  Here  and  there  little  groups  were  gathered 
over  a  game  of  cards.  The  faces  of  all  were  flushed 
and  shining  with  sweat.  The  eyes  of  the  gamblers 
were  fiercely  intent  on  their  play,  and  the  money 
came  and  went  in  a  flash  from  pocket  to  pocket. 
On  a  pile  of  straw  in  a  corner  sat  a  drunken  Yakut, 
rocking  his  body  to  and  fro  and  droning  an  endless 
song.  He  drew  the  wild,  rasping  sounds  from  his 
throat  in  every  possible  key,  repeating  always  that 
to-morrow  was  a  great  holiday  and  that  to-day  he 
was  drunk. 

Makar  paid  his  rouble  and  received  in  return  a 
bottle  of  vodka.  He  slipped  it  into  the  breast  of  his 
coat  and  retired  unnoticed  into  a  corner.  There  he 
filled  mug  after  mug  in  rapid  succession  and  gulped 
them  down  one  after  another.  The  liquor  was  vile, 
diluted  for  the  holiday  with  more  than  three  quarters 
of  water,  but  if  the  dole  of  vodka  was  scant,  the 
mahorka  had  not  been  stinted.  Makar  caught  his 
breath  after  each  draught,  and  purple  spots  circled 
before  his  eyes. 

The  liquor  soon  overpowered  him ;  he  also  sank 
down  on  the  straw,  folded  his  arms  around  his  knees, 
and  laid  his  heavy  head  upon  them.  The  same 
dreary,  rasping  sounds  burst  of  their  own  accord 
from  his  throat;  he  sang  that  to-morrow  was  a 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  11 

great  holiday  and  that  he  had  drunk  up  five  loads 
of  wood. 

Meanwhile  the  hut  was  filling  with  other  Yakuts 
who  had  come  to  town  to  go  to  church  and  to  drink 
Tartar  vodka,  and  the  host  saw  that  soon  there 
would  be  no  room  for  more.  He  rose  from  the  table 
and  looked  at  the  company,  and,  as  he  did  so,  his  eye 
fell  upon  Makar  and  the  Yakut  sitting  in  their  dark 
corner.  He  made  his  way  to  the  Yakut,  seized  him 
by  the  coat  collar,  and  flung  him  out  of  the  hut. 
Then  he  approached  Makar. 

As  a  citizen  of  Chalgan,  the  Tartar  showed  him 
greater  respect ;  he  threw  the  door  open  wide  and 
gave  the  poor  fellow  such  a  kick  from  behind  that 
Makar  shot  out  of  the  hut  and  buried  his  nose  in  a 
snow-drift. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  Makar  was 
offended  by  this  treatment  or  not.  He  felt  snow  up 
his  sleeves  and  on  his  face,  picked  himself  up  some- 
how out  of  the  drift,  and  staggered  to  where  his 
piebald  was  standing. 

The  moon  had  by  now  risen  high  in  the  heavens 
and  the  tail  of  the  Great  Bear  was  dipping  toward 
the  horizon.  The  cold  was  tightening  its  grasp. 
The  first  fiery  shafts  of  the  Aurora  were  flaring  up 
fitfully  out  of  a  dark,  semicircular  cloud  in  the  north 
and  playing  softly  across  the  sky. 

The  piebald,  realising,  it  seemed,  his  master's  con- 
dition, trudged  carefully  and  soberly  homeward. 


12  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

Makar  sat  in  his  sled,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  and 
continued  his  song.  He  sang  that  he  had  drunk  away 
five  loads  of  wood,  and  that  his  old  woman  would 
kill  him  when  he  got  home. 

The  sounds  that  burst  from  his  throat  rasped  and 
groaned  so  dismally  through  the  evening  air  that  his 
friend  the  foreigner,  who  had  climbed  up  on  to  his 
roof  to  close  the  mouth  of  the  chimney,  felt  more  than 
ever  unhappy  at  the  sound  of  Makar's  song. 

Meanwhile  the  piebald  had  drawn  the  sled  to  the 
top  of  a  little  hill  from  where  the  surrounding  coun- 
try could  be  distinctly  seen.  The  snowy  expanse 
lay  shining  brightly,  bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  moon, 
but  from  time  to  time  the  moonlight  faded  and  the 
white  fields  grew  dark  until,  with  a  sudden  flash,  the 
radiance  of  the  Northern  Lights  streamed  across 
them.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  the  snowy  hills  and  the 
forest  that  clothed  them  were  coming  very  close,  to 
withdraw  once  again  into  the  distant  shadow.  Ma- 
kar spied  plainly  through  the  trees  the  silvery  bald 
crown  of  the  little  knoll  behind  which  his  traps  were 
waiting  for  all  the  wild  dwellers  of  the  forest.  The 
sight  of  this  hill  changed  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts. 
He  sang  that  a  fox  had  been  caught  in  one  of  his 
snares ;  he  would  sell  the  pelt  in  the  morning,  and  so 
his  wife  would  not  kill  him. 

The  first  chimes  of  the  church  bells  were  ringing 
through  the  frosty  air  as  Makar  re-entered  his  hut. 
His  first  words  were  to  tell  his  wife  that  a  fox  had 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  13 

been  caught  in  one  of  his  traps,  and  as  he  had  for- 
gotten entirely  that  the  old  woman  had  not  shared 
his  vodka,  he  was  violently  surprised  when  she  gave 
him  a  cruel  kick,  without  paying  any  attention  to 
his  good  news. 

Later,  as  he  lay  prostrate  on  the  bed,  she  managed 
to  give  him  another  blow  in  the  back  with  her  fist. 

Meanwhile  the  solemn,  festal  chiming  of  the  bells 
broke  over  Chalgan  and  floated  far,  far  away  into 
the  distance. 

He  lay  on  his  bed  with  his  head  burning  and  his 
vitals  on  fire.  The  strong  mixture  of  vodka  and 
mahorka  was  coursing  through  his  veins,  and  trickles 
of  melted  snow  were  running  down  his  face  and  back. 

His  wife  thought  him  asleep,  but  he  was  not 
sleeping.  He  could  not  get  the  idea  of  that  fox  out 
of  his  head.  He  had  succeeded  in  convincing  him- 
self absolutely  that  a  fox  had  been  caught  in  one  of 
his  traps,  and  he  even  knew  which  trap  it  was.  He 
saw  the  fox  pinned  under  the  heavy  log,  saw  it  tear- 
ing at  the  snow  with  its  claws  and  struggling  to  be 
free,  while  the  moonbeams  stole  into  the  thicket  and 
played  over  its  red-gold  fur.  The  eyes  of  the  wild 
creature  were  glowing  at  his  approach. 

He  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  rose  from  his 
bed,  and  started  to  find  his  faithful  pony  who  was  to 
carry  him  into  the  forest. 

But  what  was  this?     Had  the  strong  arms  of  his 


U  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

wife  really  seized  him  by  the  collar  of  his  fur  coat 
and  thrown  him  back  on  the  bed? 

No,  here  he  was,  already  beyond  the  village.  The 
runners  of  his  sleigh  were  creaking  smoothly  over 
the  hard  snow.  Chalgan  had  been  left  behind.  The 
solemn  tones  of  the  church  bells  came  floating  along 
his  trail,  and  on  the  black  line  of  the  horizon  bands 
of  dark  horsemen  in  tall,  pointed  hats  were  sil- 
houetted against  the  bright  sky.  The  Yakuts  were 
hurrying  to  church. 

The  moon  went  down,  and  a  small,  whitish  cloud 
appeared  in  the  zenith,  shining  with  suffused,  phos- 
phorescent lustre.  It  gathered  size,  it  broke,  it  flick- 
ered, and  rays  of  iridescent  light  spread  swiftly  from 
it  in  all  directions,  while  the  dark,  semicircular  cloud 
in  the  north  grew  blacker  and  blacker,  more  sombre 
than  the  forest  which  Makar  was  approaching. 

The  road  wound  through  a  dense,  low  thicket  with 
little  hills  rising  on  either  hand ;  the  farther  it 
advanced,  the  higher  grew  the  trees,  until  at  last  the 
taiga  *  closed  about  it,  mute  and  pregnant  with  mys- 
tery. The  naked  branches  of  the  larches  drooped 
under  their  loads  of  silvery  rime.  The  soft  radiance 
of  the  Aurora  filtered  through  the  tree-tops,  and 
strayed  across  the  frosty  earth,  unveiling  now  an 
icy  glade,  now  the  fallen  trunk  of  some  giant  of  the 
forest  half  buried  in  the  snow. 

Another  moment,  and  again  all  was  sunk  in  murky 
*  Taiga:  the  Siberian  forest. 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  15 

darkness,  full-fraught  with  secrecy  and  silence.  Ma- 
kar  stopped.  Here,  almost  at  the  side  of  the  road, 
were  set  the  first  units  of  an  elaborate  system  of 
traps.  He  could  see  clearly  in  the  phosphorescent 
light  the  low  stockade  of  fallen  timber  and  the  first 
trap — three  long,  heavy  logs  resting  upon  an  upright 
post,  and  held  in  place  by  a  complicated  arrangement 
of  levers  and  horse-hair  ropes. 

To  be  sure,  these  traps  were  not  his,  but  might 
not  a  fox  have  been  caught  in  them,  too?  Makar 
quickly  got  out  of  his  sled,  left  the  clever  piebald 
standing  in  the  road,  and  listened  attentively. 

Not  a  sound  in  the  forest !  Only  the  solemn  ring- 
ing of  the  church  bells  came  floating  as  before  from 
the  distant,  invisible  village. 

There  was  nothing  to  fear.  Aliosha,  the  owner 
of  the  traps  and  Makar's  neighbour  and  bitter 
enemy,  was  no  doubt  in  church.  Not  a  track  could 
be  seen  on  the  smooth  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow. 

Makar  struck  into  the  thicket — no  one  was  there. 

The  snow  creaked  under  foot.  The  log  traps  lay 
side  by  side  like  a  row  of  cannon  with  gaping  jaws, 
in  silent  expectation. 

Makar  walked  up  and  down  the  line  without  find- 
ing anything,  and  turned  back  to  the  road. 

But  what  was  that?  A  faint  rustle!  The  gleam 
of  red  fur  near  at  hand  in  a  spot  of  light !  Makar 
saw  clearly  the  pointed  ears  of  a  fox;  it  waved  its 
bushy  tail  from  side  to  side  as  if  to  beckon  him 


16  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

into  the  forest,  and  vanished  among  the  tree-trunks 
in  the  direction  of  his  traps.  Next  moment  a  dull, 
heavy  thud  resounded  through  the  forest,  ringing 
out  clearly  at  first,  and  then  echoing  more  faintly 
under  the  canopy  of  trees,  until  it  died  softly  away 
in  the  dark  abysses  of  the  taiga. 

Makar's  heart  leapt — a  trap  had  fallen ! 

He  sprang  toward  the  sound,  pushing  his  way 
through  the  undergrowth.  The  icy  twigs  whipped 
his  eyes  and  showered  snow  in  his  face;  he  stumbled 
and  lost  his  breath. 

At  last  he  ran  into  a  clearing  that  he  himself  had 
made.  Hoary  white  trees  surrounded  the  little 
glade,  and  a  shrinking  path  crept  across  it,  with  the 
mouth  of  a  large  trap  guarding  its  farther  end. 
A  few  steps  more  and 

Suddenly,  the  figure  of  a  man  appeared  on  the 
path  near  the  trap — appeared  and  vanished.  Makar 
recognised  Aliosha.  He  saw  distinctly  his  short,  mas- 
sive, stooping  form  and  his  walk  like  a  bear's.  His 
dark  face  looked  blacker  than  he  had  ever  seen  it, 
Makar  thought,  and  his  large  teeth  showed  in  a 
wider  grin  than  ever. 

Makar  was  seized  with  genuine  anger.  "The 
scoundrel !  He  has  been  at  my  traps !"  It  was  true 
that  Makar  had  just  made  the  round  of  Aliosha's 
traps,  but  that  was  a  different  matter.  The  differ- 
ence was  that  when  he  visited  other  men's  traps  he 
felt  afraid  of  being  discovered,  but  when  others  came 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  17 

to  his  traps,  he  felt  indignation  and  a  longing  to  lay 
hands  on  the  man  who  had  violated  his  rights. 

He  darted  toward  the  fallen  trap.  There  was  the 
fox!  Aliosha,  too,  was  approaching  with  his  shuf- 
fling bear's  walk;  Makar  must  reach  the  trap  first! 

There  lay  the  fallen  log  and  under  it  glistened  the 
ruddy  coat  of  the  captive  creature.  The  fox  was 
scratching  at  the  snow  with  its  paws  exactly  as 
Makar  had  seen  it  scratch  in  his  dream,  and  was 
watching  his  approach  with  bright,  burning  eyes, 
just  as  he  had  dreamt  that  it  would. 

"Titima!  (Don't  touch  it!)  It  is  mine!"  cried 
Makar  to  Aliosha. 

"Titima!"  came  Aliosha's  voice  like  an  echo.  "It 
is  mine !" 

Both  men  ran  up  at  the  same  moment,  and  both 
began  quickly  to  raise  the  log,  freeing  the  animal 
beneath  it.  As  the  log  was  lifted  the  fox  rose  too. 
It  gave  a  little  jump,  stopped,  looked  at  the  two 
men  with  mocking  eyes,  and  then,  lowering  its  nose, 
licked  the  place  that  had  been  caught  under  the  log. 
This  done  it  hopped  gaily  away  with  a  farewell  flirt 
of  its  tail. 

Aliosha  would  have  thrown  himself  after  it,  but 
Makar  caught  him  by  the  coat  tails. 

"Titima !"  he  cried.  "It  is  mine !"  And  he  started 
after  the  fox. 

"Titima !"  echoed  Aliosha's  voice  again,  and  Ma- 


18  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

kar  felt  himself  seized,  in  turn,  by  the  tails  of  his 
coat,  and  saw  Aliosha  dart  forward. 

Makar  was  furious.  He  forgot  the  fox  and  rushed 
after  Aliosha,  who  now  turned  to  flee. 

They  ran  faster  and  faster.  The  twigs  of  the 
larches  knocked  the  cap  from  Aliosha's  head,  but  he 
could  not  stop  to  regain  it.  Makar  was  already 
upon  him  with  a  fierce  cry.  But  Aliosha  had  always 
been  more  crafty  than  poor  Makar.  He  suddenly 
stopped,  turned  round,  and  lowered  his  head ;  Makar 
ran  straight  into  it  with  his  stomach  and  turned 
head  over  heels  in  the  snow.  As  he  fell,  that  infernal 
Aliosha  snatched  the  cap  from  his  head  and  vanished 
into  the  forest. 

Makar  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  felt  thoroughly 
beaten  and  miserable.  The  state  of  his  mind  was 
pitiful.  The  fox  had  been  in  his  hands  and  now — 
he  thought  he  saw  it  again  in  the  darkening  forest 
wave  its  tail  gaily  once  more  and  vanish  forever. 

Darkness  was  falling.  The  little  white  cloud  in 
the  zenith  could  barely  be  seen,  and  beams  of  fading 
light  were  flowing  wearily  and  languidly  from  it  as  it 
gently  melted  away. 

Sharp  rivulets  of  icy  water  were  running  in 
streams  over  Makar's  heated  body;  the  snow  had 
gone  up  his  sleeves  and  was  trickling  down  his  back 
and  into  his  boots.  That  infernal  Aliosha  had  taken 
away  his  cap  and  Makar  well  knew  that  the  pitiless 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  19 

cold  does  not  jest  with  men  who  go  into  the  taiga 
without  gloves  and  without  a  hat. 

He  had  already  walked  far.  According  to  his  cal- 
culations he  should  long  since  have  been  in  sight  of 
the  church  steeple,  but  here  he  was  still  in  the  forest. 
The  taiga  held  him  in  its  embrace  like  a  witch.  The 
same  solemn  ringing  came  to  his  ears  from  afar;  he 
thought  he  was  walking  toward  it,  but  the  sound 
kept  growing  more  and  more  distant,  and  a  dull 
despair  crept  into  Makar's  heart  as  its  echoes  came 
ever  more  faintly  to  his  ears. 

He  was  tired ;  he  was  choking ;  his  legs  were  shak- 
ing under  him.  His  bruised  body  ached  miserably, 
his  breathing  strangled  him,  his  feet  and  hands  were 
growing  numb,  and  red-hot  bands  seemed  tightening 
around  his  bare  head. 

"I  shall  die !"  came  more  and  more  frequently  into 
his  mind,  but  still  he  walked  on. 

The  taiga  held  its  peace.  It  closed  about  him 
with  obdurate  hostility  and  gave  him  no  light  and 
no  hope. 

"I  shall  die !"  Makar  kept  thinking. 

His  strength  left  him  altogether.  The  saplings 
now  beat  him  squarely  in  the  face  without  the  least 
shame,  in  derision  at  his  helpless  plight.  As  he 
crossed  one  little  glade  a  white  hare  ran  out,  sat  up 
on  its  hind  legs,  waved  its  long,  black-tipped  ears, 
and  began  to  wash  its  face,  making  the  rudest  gri- 
maces at  Makar.  It  gave  him  to  understand  that  it 


20  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

knew  him  well,  knew  him  to  be  the  same  Makar  who 
had  devised  cunning  means  of  destruction  for  it  in 
the  forest ;  but  now  it  was  its  turn  to  jeer. 

Makar  felt  bitterly  sad.  The  taiga  grew  more 
animated,  but  with  a  malign  activity.  Even  the  dis- 
tant trees  now  threw  their  long  branches  across  his 
way,  snatched  at  his  hair,  and  beat  his  face  and' 
eyes.  The  ptarmigans  came  out  of  their  secret  cov- 
erts and  fixed  their  round,  curious  eyes  upon  him, 
and  the  wood-grouse  ran  in  and  out  among  them  with 
drooping  tails  and  angry,  spreading  wings,  loudly 
telling  their  mates  of  him,  Makar,  and  of  his  snares. 
Finally,  a  thousand  fox-faces  glanced  from  the  dis- 
tant thickets ;  they  sniffed  the  air  and  looked  de- 
risively at  him,  pricking  their  sharp  ears.  Then  the 
hares  came  and  stood  on  their  hind  legs  before  him 
and  shouted  with  laughter  as  they  told  of  Makar's 
misfortune. 

That  was  too  much. 

"I  shall  die !"  thought  Makar,  and  he  decided  to 
do  so  as  quickly  as  possible. 

He  lay  down  on  the  snow. 

The  cold  increased.  The  last  rays  of  the  Aurora 
flickered  faintly  and  stretched  across  the  sky  to  peep 
at  Makar  through  the  tree-tops.  The  last  echoes 
of  the  church  bells  came  floating  to  him  from  far- 
away Chalgan. 

The  Northern  Lights  flared  up  and  went  out. 
The  bells  ceased  ringing. 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  21 

Makar  died. 

He  did  not  notice  how  this  came  to  pass.  He 
knew  that  something  should  come  out  of  him,  and 
waited,  thinking  every  moment  it  would  come,  but 
nothing  appeared. 

Nevertheless,  he  realised  that  he  was  now  dead, 
and  he  therefore  lay  very  still;  he  lay  so  long  that 
he  grew  tired. 

The  night  was  dark  when  Makar  felt  someone 
push  him  with  his  foot.  He  turned  his  head  and 
opened  his  eyes. 

The  larches  were  now  standing  meekly  and  quietly 
over  him,  as  if  ashamed  of  their  former  pranks.  The 
shaggy  spruces  stretched  out  their  long  snow-cov- 
ered arms  and  rocked  themselves  gently,  gently,  and 
the  starry  snowflakes  settled  softly  through  the  air. 

The  kind,  bright  stars  looked  down  through  the 
branches  from  the  dark  blue  sky,  and  seemed  to  be 
saying :  "See,  a  poor  man  has  died !" 

Over  Makar's  prostrate  form  and  prodding  him 
with  his  foot  stood  the  old  priest  Ivan.  His  long 
cassock  was  white  with  snow;  snow  lay  upon  his  fur 
hat,  his  shoulders,  and  his  beard.  Most  surprising 
of  all  was  the  fact  that  this  was  the  same  Father 
Ivan  who  had  died  five  years  ago. 

He  had  been  a  good  priest.  He  had  never  pressed 
Makar  for  his  tithes  and  had  not  even  asked  to  be 
paid  for  the  services  of  the  church;  Makar  had  al- 


22  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

ways  fixed  the  price  of  his  own  christenings  and 
requiems,  and  he  now  remembered  with  confusion  that 
it  had  sometimes  been  extremely  low  and  that  some- 
times he  had  not  even  paid  it  at  all.  Father  Ivan  had 
never  resented  this,  he  had  only  required  one  thing: 
a  bottle  of  vodka  on  every  occasion.  If  Makar  had 
no  money,  Father  Ivan  would  send  him  for  the  bottle 
himself,  and  they  would  drink  it  together.  The  good 
priest  always  grew  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  but  he  fought 
neither  fiercely  nor  often.  Makar  would  see  him 
home,  and  hand  him  over,  helpless  and  defenseless,  to 
the  care  of  the  Mother  Priestess,  his  wife. 

Yes,  he  had  been  a  good  priest,  but  his  end  had 
been  bad. 

One  day,  when  there  was  no  one  else  at  home,  the 
fuddled  Father,  who  was  lying  alone  on  the  bed,  had 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  smoke.  He  got  up  and 
staggered  toward  the  great,  fiercely  heated  fireplace 
to  light  his  pipe  at  the  blaze.  But  he  was  too  drunk, 
he  swayed  and  fell  into  the  fire.  When  his  family 
returned,  all  that  remained  of  the  little  Father  were 
his  feet. 

Every  one  regretted  good  Father  Ivan,  but  no 
doctor  on  earth  could  have  saved  him,  as  only  his 
feet  remained.  So  they  buried  the  feet,  and  a  new 
priest  was  appointed  to  fill  the  place  of  Father  Ivan. 

And  now  Ivan  himself,  sound  and  whole,  was 
standing  over  Makar,  prodding  him  with  his  foot. 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  23 

"Get  up,  Makar,  old  man!"  he  was  saying,  "and 
let  us  be  going." 

"Where  must  I  go?"  asked  Makar  with  displeas- 
ure. He  supposed  that  once  dead  he  ought  to  lie 
still,  and  that  there  was  no  need  for  him  now  to  be 
wandering  about  the  forest,  losing  his  way.  If  he 
had  to  do  that,  then  why  had  he  died? 

"Let  us  go  to  the  great  Toyon."  * 

"Why  should  I  go  to  him?"  Makar  asked. 

"He  is  going  to  judge  you,"  answered  the  priest  in 
a  sorrowful,  compassionate  voice. 

Makar  recollected  that,  in  fact,  one  did  have  to 
appear  at  some  judgment  after  one  died.  He  had 
heard  that  at  church.  The  priest  was  right  after 
all;  he  would  have  to  get  up. 

So  Makar  rose,  muttering  under  his  breath  that 
they  couldn't  even  let  a  man  alone  after  he  was  dead. 

The  priest  walked  before  and  Makar  followed. 
They  went  always  straight  ahead,  and  the  larches 
stood  meekly  aside  and  allowed  them  to  pass;  they 
were  going  eastward. 

Makar  noted  with  surprise  that  Father  Ivan  left 
no  tracks  in  the  snow  behind  him;  he  looked  under 
his  own  feet  and  saw  no  tracks  either ;  the  snow  lay 
as  fresh  and  smooth  as  a  table  cloth. 

How  easy  it  would  be  now,  he  reflected,  to  rob 
other  men's  traps,  as  no  one  could  find  him  out !  But 
the  priest  must  have  read  his  secret  thought,  for  he 
*  Toyon:  Chief. 


24  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

turned  and  said:  "Kabis !  (stop  that!).  You  don't 
know  what  you  will  get  for  thoughts  like  that." 

"Well,  I  declare !"  exclaimed  the  disgusted  Makar. 
"Can't  I  even  think  what  I  please  ?  What  makes  you 
so  strict  these  days  ?  Hold  your  tongue !" 

The  priest  shook  his  head  and  walked  on. 

"Have  we  far  to  go  ?"  asked  Makar. 

"Yes,  a  long  way,"  answered  the  priest  sadly. 

"And  what  shall  we  have  to  eat?"  Makar  inquired 
with  anxiety. 

"You  have  forgotten  that  you  are  dead,"  the 
priest  answered  turning  toward  him.  "You  won't 
have  to  eat  or  drink  now." 

Makar  did  not  like  that  idea  in  the  least.  Of 
course  it  would  be  all  right  in  case  there  were  noth- 
ing to  eat,  but  then  one  ought  to  lie  still,  as  he  did 
at  first  after  his  death.  But  to  walk,  and  to  walk 
a  long  way,  and  to  eat  nothing,  that  seemed  to  him 
to  be  absolutely  outrageous.  He  began  muttering 
again. 

"Don't  grumble!" 

"All  right!"  he  answered  in  an  injured  voice  and 
went  on  complaining  and  growling  to  himself  about 
such  a  stupid  arrangement. 

"They  make  a  man  walk  and  yet  he  needn't  eat! 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?" 

He  was  extremely  discontented  as  he  followed  the 
priest.  And  they  walked  a  long  way.  Though  Ma- 
kar could  not  see  the  dawn,  they  seemed,  by  the 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  25 

distance  they  had  covered,  to  have  been  walking  a 
week.  They  had  left  so  many  ravines  and  hills  be- 
hind them,  so  many  rivers  and  lakes,  so  many  forests 
and  plains !  Whenever  Makar  looked  back,  the  dark 
taiga  seemed  to  be  running  away  behind  them  and 
the  high,  snowclad  mountains  seemed  to  be  melting 
into  the  murky  night  and  hiding  swiftly  behind  the 
horizon. 

They  appeared  to  be  climbing  higher  and  higher. 
The  stars  grew  larger  and  brighter;  from  the  crest 
of  the  height  to  which  they  had  risen  they  could 
see  the  rim  of  the  setting  moon.  It  seemed  to  have 
been  in  haste  to  escape,  but  Makar  and  the  priest  had 
overtaken  it.  Then  it  rose  again  over  the  horizon, 
and  the  travellers  found  themselves  on  a  level,  very 
high  plain.  It  was  light  now,  much  lighter  than  early 
in  the  night,  and  this  was  due,  of  course,  to  the  fact 
that  they  were  much  nearer  the  stars  than  they  had 
been  before.  Each  one  of  these,  in  size  like  an  apple, 
glittered  with  ineffable  brightness ;  the  moon,  as  large 
as  a  huge  barrel-head,  blazed  with  the  brilliance  of 
the  sun,  lighting  up  the  vast  expanse  from  one  edge 
to  the  other. 

Every  snowflake  on  the  plain  was  sharply  discern- 
ible, and  countless  paths  stretched  across  it,  all  con- 
verging toward  the  same  point  in  the  east.  Men 
of  various  aspects  and  in  many  different  garbs  were 
walking  and  riding  along  these  roads. 


26  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

Makar  looked  sharply  at  one  horseman,  and  then 
suddenly  turned  off  the  road  and  pursued  him. 

"Stop!  Stop!"  cried  the  priest,  but  Makar  did 
not  even  hear  him.  He  had  recognised  a  Tartar,  an 
old  acquaintance  of  his,  who  had  stolen  a  piebald 
horse  from  him  once,  and  who  had  died  five  years 
ago.  There  was  that  same  Tartar  now,  riding  along 
on  the  very  same  horse !  The  animal  was  skimming 
over  the  ground,  clouds  of  snowy  dust  were  rising 
from  under  its  hoofs,  glittering  with  the  rainbow 
colours  of  twinkling  stars.  Makar  was  surprised  that 
he  should  be  able,  on  foot,  to  overtake  the  Tartar  so 
easily  in  his  mad  gallop.  Besides,  when  he  perceived 
Makar  a  few  steps  behind  him,  he  stopped  with  great 
readiness.  Makar  fell  upon  him  with  passion. 

"Come  to  the  sheriff  with  me !"  he  cried.  "That  is 
my  horse ;  he  has  a  split  in  his  right  ear.  Look  at  the 
man,  how  smart  he  is,  riding  along  on  a  stolen  horse 
while  the  owner  follows  on  foot  like  a  beggar !" 

"Gently,"  said  the  Tartar.  "No  need  to  go  for 
the  sheriff!  You  say  this  is  your  horse,  take  him 
and  be  damned  to  the  brute !  This  is  the  fifth  year  I 
have  been  riding  him  up  and  down  on  one  and  the 
same  spot !  Every  foot-passenger  overtakes  me.  It 
is  humiliating  for  a  good  Tartar,  it  is  indeed !" 

He  threw  his  leg  over  the  saddle  in  act  to  alight, 
but  at  that  moment  the  panting  priest  came  running 
up  and  seized  Makar  by  the  arm. 

"Unfortunate  man!"  he  cried.     "What  are  you 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  27 

about?  Can't  you  see  that  the  Tartar  is  fooling 
you?" 

"Of  course  he  is  fooling  me !"  shouted  Makar  wav- 
ing his  arms.  "That  was  a  lovely  horse,  a  real  gen- 
tleman's horse;  I  was  offered  forty  roubles  for  him 
before  his  third  spring.  Never  you  mind,  brother! 
If  you  have  spoilt  that  horse  for  me  I  shall  cut  him 
up  for  meat,  and  you  shall  pay  me  his  full  value  in 
money!  Do  you  think,  because  you  are  a  Tartar, 
there  are  no  laws  for  you?" 

Makar  was  flying  into  a  passion  and  shouting  in 
order  to  draw  a  crowd  about  him,  for  he  was  afraid 
of  Tartars  from  habit,  but  the  priest  broke  in  on  his 
outburst. 

"Gently,  gently,  Makar,  you  keep  forgetting  that 
you  are  dead!  What  do  you  want  with  a  horse? 
Can't  you  see  that  you  travel  much  faster  on  foot 
than  the  Tartar  does  on  horseback?  Would  you 
like  to  be  forced  to  ride  for  a  whole  thousand  years?" 

Makar  now  understood  why  the  Tartar  had  been 
so  willing  to  give  up  his  horse. 

"They're  a  crooked  lot !"  he  thought,  and  he  turned 
to  the  Tartar. 

"Very  well  then,"  he  said.  "Take  the  horse, 
brother;  I  forgive  you!" 

The  Tartar  angrily  pulled  his  fur  cap  over  his 
ears  and  lashed  his  horse.  The  pony  galloped  madly, 
and  clouds  of  snow  flew  from  under  its  hoofs, 


28  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

but  long  as  Makar  and  the  priest  stood  still,  the 
Tartar  did  not  budge  an  inch  from  their  side. 

He  spat  angrily  and  turned  to  Makar. 

"Listen,  friend,  haven't  you  a  bit  of  mahorka  with 
you?  I  do  want  to  smoke  so  badly,  and  I  finished 
all  mine  five  years  ago." 

"You're  a  friend  of  dogs  but  no  friend  of  mine," 
retorted  Makar  in  a  rage.  "You  have  stolen  my 
horse  and  now  you  ask  for  mahorka !  Confound  you 
altogether,  I'm  not  sorry  for  you  one  bit !" 

With  these  words  Makar  moved  on. 

"You  made  a  mistake  not  to  give  him  a  little 
mahorka,"  said  Father  Ivan.  "The  Toyon  would 
have  forgiven  you  at  least  one  hundred  sins  for  that 
at  the  Judgment." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before?" 
snapped  Makar. 

"Ah,  it  is  too  late  to  teach  you  anything  now. 
You  should  have  learnt  it  from  your  priest  while  you 
were  alive." 

Makar  was  furious.  He  saw  no  sense  in  priests 
who  took  their  tithes  and  did  not  even  teach  a  man 
when  to  give  a  leaf  of  mahorka  to  a  Tartar  in  order 
to  gain  forgiveness  for  his  sins.  One  hundred  sins 
were  no  joke!  And  all  for  a  leaf  of  tobacco!  The 
mistake  had  cost  him  dear. 

"Wait  a  moment!"  he  exclaimed.  "One  leaf  will 
do  very  well  for  us  two.  Let  me  give  the  other  four 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  29 

to  the  Tartar  this  minute,  that  will  mean  four  hun- 
dred sins !" 

"Look  behind  you,"  answered  the  priest. 

Makar  looked  round.  The  white,  empty  plain  lay 
stretched  out  far  behind  them ;  the  Tartar  appeared 
for  a  second  upon  it,  a  tiny,  distant  dot.  Makar 
thought  he  could  distinguish  the  white  cloud  rising 
from  under  the  hoofs  of  his  piebald,  but  next  mo- 
ment the  dot,  too,  had  vanished. 

"Well,  well,  the  Tartar  will  manage  all  right  with- 
out his  mahorka.  You  see  how  he  has  ruined  my 
horse,  the  scoundrel!" 

"No,  he  has  not  ruined  your  horse,"  answered  the 
priest.  "That  horse  was  stolen.  Have  you  not  heard 
the  old  men  say  that  a  stolen  horse  will  never  go 
far?" 

Makar  had  certainly  heard  this  from  the  old  men, 
but  as  he  had  often  seen  Tartars  ride  all  the  way  to 
the  city  on  horses  that  they  had  stolen,  he  had  never 
put  much  belief  in  the  saying.  He  now  concluded 
that  old  men  were  sometimes  right. 

They  now  began  to  pass  many  other  horsemen  on 
the  plain.  All  were  hurrying  along  as  fast  as  the 
first;  the  horses  were  flying  like  birds,  the  riders 
dripping  with  sweat,  yet  Makar  and  the  priest  kept 
overtaking  them  and  leaving  them  behind. 

Most  of  these  horsemen  were  Tartars,  but  a  few 
were  natives  of  Chalgan;  some  of  the  latter  were 


30  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

astride  stolen  oxen  and  were  goading  them  on  with 
lumps  of  ice. 

Makar  looked  with  hatred  at  the  Tartars,  and 
muttered  every  time  he  passed  one  that  the  fellow 
had  deserved  much  worse  than  this,  but  when  he  met 
a  peasant  from  Chalgan  he  would  stop  and  chat 
amicably  with  him,  as  they  were  friends,  after  all, 
even  if  they  were  thieves !  Sometimes  he  would  even 
show  his  fellow-feeling  by  picking  up  a  lump  of  ice 
and  diligently  beating  the  ox  or  horse  from  behind, 
but  let  him  take  so  much  as  one  step  forward  him- 
self, and  horse  and  rider  would  be  left  far  in  the 
rear,  a  scarcely  visible  dot. 

The  plain  seemed  to  be  boundless.  Though  Makar 
and  his  companion  occasionally  overtook  these  riders 
and  pedestrians,  the  country  around  was  deserted, 
and  the  travellers  seemed  to  be  separated  by  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  miles. 

Among  others,  Makar  fell  in  with  an  old  man  un- 
known to  him,  who  plainly  hailed  from  Chalgan; 
this  could  be  discerned  from  his  face,  his  clothes, 
and  even  from  his  walk,  but  Makar  could  not  re- 
member ever  having  seen  him  before.  The  old  man 
wore  a  ragged  fur  coat,  a  great  shaggy  hat,  tattered 
and  worn  leather  breeches,  and  still  older  calf-skin 
boots.  Worst  of  all,  he  was  carrying  on  his  shoul- 
ders, in  spite  of  his  old  age,  a  crone  still  more  an- 
cient than  himself,  whose  feet  trailed  on  the  ground. 
The  old  man  was  wheezing  and  staggering  along, 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  31 

leaning  heavily  on  his  stick.  Makar  felt  sorry  for 
him.  He  stopped  and  the  old  man  stopped  too. 

"Kansi!  (Speak!)"  said  Makar  pleasantly. 

"No,"  answered  the  greybeard. 

"What  have  you  seen?" 

"Nothing." 

"What  have  you  heard?" 

"Nothing."  * 

Makar  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  thought 
he  might  ask  the  old  man  who  he  was  and  whence 
he  had  crawled. 

The  old  man  told  his  name.  Long  since,  he  said — 
he  did  not  know  himself  how  many  years  ago — he 
had  left  Chalgan  and  gone  up  to  the  "mountain" 
to  save  himself.  There  he  had  done  no  work,  had 
lived  on  roots  and  berries,  and  had  neither  ploughed 
nor  sowed  nor  ground  wheat  nor  paid  taxes.  When 
he  died  he  went  to  the  Judgment  of  the  Toyon.  The 
Toyon  asked  him  who  he  was,  and  what  he  had  done. 
He  answered  he  had  gone  up  on  the  "mountain"  and 
had  saved  himself.  "Very  well,"  the  Toyon  an- 
swered, "but  where  is  your  wife?  Go  and  fetch  her 
here."  So  he  went  back  for  his  old  woman.  But 
she  had  been  forced  to  beg  before  she  died,  as  there 
had  been  no  one  to  support  her,  and  she  had  had 
neither  house,  nor  cow,  nor  bread.  Her  strength 
had  failed,  and  now  finally  she  was  not  able  to  move 
her  legs.  So  he  was  obliged  to  carry  her  to  the 
Toyon  on  his  back. 


32  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

As  he  said  this,  the  old  man  burst  into  tears,  but 
the  old  woman  kicked  him  with  her  heels  as  if  he  had 
been  an  ox,  and  cried  in  a  weak,  cross  voice: 

"Go  on !" 

Makar  felt  more  sorry  than  ever  for  the  old  man, 
and  heartily  thanked  his  stars  that  he  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  going  to  the  "mountain"  himself.  His 
wife  was  large  and  lusty,  and  his  burden  would  have 
been  even  heavier  than  that  of  th^  old  man ;  if,  in 
addition  to  this,  she  had  begun  to  kick  him  as  if  he 
were  an  ox,  he  would  certainly  have  died  a  second 
death. 

He  tried  to  hold  the  old  woman's  feet  out  of  pity 
for  his  friend,  but  he  had  scarcely  taken  three  steps 
before  he  was  forced  to  drop  them  hastily,  or  they 
would  certainly  have  remained  in  his  hands ;  another 
minute,  and  the  old  man  and  his  burden  were  left 
far  out  of  sight. 

For  the  remainder  of  his  journey  Makar  met  no 
more  travellers  whom  he  honoured  with  marked  at- 
tention. Here  were  thieves  crawling  along  step 
by  step,  laden  like  beasts  of  burden  with  stolen 
goods ;  here  rode  fat  Yakut  chieftains  towering  in 
their  high  saddles,  their  peaked  hats  brushing  the 
clouds ;  here,  skipping  beside  them,  ran  poor  work- 
men, as  lean  and  light  as  hares ;  here  strode  a 
gloomy  murderer,  blood-drenched,  with  haggard,  fur- 
tive eyes.  He  kept  casting  himself  in  vain  into  the 
pure  snow,  hoping  to  wash  out  the  crimson  stains ; 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  33 

the  snow  around  him  was  instantly  dyed  red,  but  the 
blood  upon  the  murderer  started  out  more  vividly 
than  ever,  and  in  his  eyes  there  gleamed  wild  horror 
and  despair.  So  he  ran  on,  shunning  the  frightened 
gaze  of  all  men. 

From  time  to  time  the  little  souls  of  children  came 
flying  through  the  air  like  birds,  winging  their  way 
in  great  flocks,  and  this  was  no  surprise  to  Makar. 
Bad,  coarse  food,  dirt,  the  heat  from  the  fireplaces, 
and  the  cold  draughts  in  the  huts  drove  them  from 
Chalgan  alone  in  hundreds.  As  they  overtook  the 
murderer,  the  startled  flocks  wheeled  swiftly  aside, 
and  long  after  their  passage  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  quick,  anxious  whirring  of  their  little  pinions. 

Makar  could  not  help  remarking  that,  in  compari- 
son with  the  other  travellers,  he  was  moving  at  a 
fairly  swift  pace,  and  he  hastened  to  ascribe  this  to 
his  own  virtue. 

"Listen  Asabit!  (Father!)"  he  said.  "What  do 
you  think,  even  if  I  was  fond  of  drinking  I  was  a 
good  man,  wasn't  I?  God  loves  me,  doesn't  he?" 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Father  Ivan.  He  had 
a  secret  motive  for  asking  this  question,  he  wanted 
to  find  out  something  from  the  old  priest,  but  the 
latter  answered  curtly: 

"Don't  be  conceited !  We  are  near  the  end  now. 
You  will  soon  find  that  out  for  yourself." 

Makar  had  not  noticed  until  then  that  a  light 
seemed  to  be  breaking  over  the  plain.  First  a  few 


34  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

lambent  rays  flashed  up  over  the  horizon,  spreading 
swiftly  across  the  sky  and  extinguishing  the  bright 
stars.  They  went  out,  the  moon  set,  and  the  plain 
lay  in  darkness. 

Then  mists  arose  on  the  plain  and  stood  round 
about  it  like  a  guard  of  honour. 

And  at  a  certain  point  in  the  east  the  mists  grew 
bright  like  a  legion  of  warriors  in  golden  armour. 

And  then  the  mists  stirred,  and  the  warriors  pros- 
trated themselves  upon  the  ground. 

And  the  sun  rose  from  their  midst,  and  rested  upon 
their  golden  ranks,  and  looked  across  the  plain. 

And  the  whole  plain  shone  with  a  wonderful,  daz- 
zling radiance. 

And  the  mists  rose  triumphantly  in  a  mighty  host, 
parted  in  the  south,  swayed,  and  swept  upwards. 

And  Makar  seemed  to  hear  a  most  enchanting  mel- 
ody, the  immemorial  pamn  with  which  the  earth  daily 
greets  the  rising  sun.  He  had  never  before  given  it 
due  attention,  and  only  now  felt  for  the  first  time 
the  beauty  of  the  song. 

He  stood  and  hearkened  and  would  not  go  any 
farther ;  he  wanted  to  stand  there  forever  and  listen. 

But  Father  Ivan  touched  him  on  the  arm. 
"We  have  arrived,"  he  said.    "Let  us  go  in." 
Thereupon  Makar  noticed  that  they  were  stand- 
ing before  a  large  door  which  had  previously  been 
hidden  by  the  mist. 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  85 

He  was  very  loath  to  proceed,  but  could  not  fail  to 
comply. 

They  entered  a  large  and  spacious  hut,  and  not 
until  then  did  Makar  reflect  that  it  had  been  very 
cold  outside.  In  the  middle  of  the  hut  was  a  chim- 
ney of  pure  silver  marvellously  engraved,  and  in  it 
blazed  logs  of  gold,  radiating  such  an  even  heat  that 
one's  whole  body  was  penetrated  by  it  in  an  instant. 
The  flames  in  this  beautiful  fireplace  neither  scorched 
nor  dazzled  the  eyes,  they  only  warmed,  and  once 
more  Makar  wanted  to  stand  there  and  toast  himself 
forever.  Father  Ivan,  too,  came  and  stood  before 
the  fire,  stretching  out  his  frozen  hands  to  the  blaze. 

Four  doors  opened  out  of  the  room,  and  of  these 
only  one  led  into  the  open  air;  through  the  other 
three  young  men  in  long  white  gowns  were  coming 
and  going.  Makar  imagined  that  they  must  be  the 
servants  of  this  Toyon.  He  seemed  to  remember 
having  seen  them  somewhere  before,  but  could  not 
recollect  exactly  where.  He  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised to  note  that  each  servant  wore  a  pair  of  large 
white  wings  upon  his  back,  and  decided  that  the 
Toyon  must  have  other  workmen  beside  these,  for 
surely  they,  encumbered  with  their  wings,  could  never 
make  their  way  through  the  forest  thickets  when  they 
went  to  cut  wood  or  poles. 

One  of  the  servants  approached  the  fire,  and,  turn- 
ing his  back  to  the  blaze,  addressed  Father  Ivan. 


36  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

"Speak!" 

"There  is  nought  to  say." 

"What  did  you  hear  in  the  world?" 

"Nothing." 

"What  did  you  see?" 

"Nothing." 

Both  were  silent,  and  then  the  priest  said : 

"I  have  brought  this  one." 

"Is  he  from  Chalgan?"  asked  the  servant. 

"Yes,  from  Chalgan." 

"Then  we  must  get  ready  the  big  scales." 

He  left  the  room  to  make  his  preparations,  and 
Makar  asked  the  priest  why  scales  were  needed,  and 
why  they  must  be  large. 

"You  see,"  answered  the  priest  a  trifle  embar- 
rassed, "the  scales  are  needed  to  weigh  the  good  and 
evil  you  did  when  you  were  alive.  With  all  other 
people  the  good  and  evil  almost  balance  one  another, 
but  the  inhabitants  of  Chalgan  bring  so  many  sins 
with  them  that  the  Toyon  had  to  have  special  scales 
made  with  one  of  the  bowls  extra  large  in  order  to 
contain  them  all." 

At  these  words  Makar  quailed,  and  felt  his  heart- 
strings tighten. 

The  servant  brought  in  and  set  up  the  big  scales. 
One  bowl  was  small  and  of  gold,  the  other  was  wooden 
and  of  huge  proportions.  A  deep  black  pit  suddenly 
opened  under  the  wooden  bowl. 

Makar  approached  the   scales,  and  carefully  in- 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  37 

spected  them  to  make  sure  they  were  not  false.  They 
proved  to  be  correct;  the  bowls  hung  motionless, 
without  movement  up  or  down. 

To  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  exactly  understand 
their  mechanism,  and  would  have  preferred  to  have 
done  business  with  the  simple  balances  by  whose  aid 
he  had  learned  to  buy  and  sell  with  great  profit  to 
himself  during  the  course  of  his  long  life. 

"The  Toyon  is  coming!"  cried  Father  Ivan  sud- 
denly, and  hastily  began  to  pull  his  cassock  straight. 

The  central  door  opened  and  in  came  an  ancient, 
venerable  Toyon,  his  long  silvery  beard  hanging 
below  his  waist.  He  was  dressed  in  rich  furs  and 
tissues  unknown  to  Makar,  and  on  his  feet  he  wore 
warm  velvet-lined  boots,  such  as  Makar  had  seen 
depicted  on  antique  ikons. 

Makar  recognised  him  at  a  glance  as  the  same 
old  greybeard  whose  picture  he  had  seen  in  church, 
only  here  he  was  unattended  by  his  son.  Makar 
decided  that  the  latter  must  have  gone  out  on  busi- 
ness. The  dove  flew  into  the  room,  however,  and 
after  circling  about  the  old  man's  head,  settled  upon 
his  knee.  The  old  Toyon  stroked  the  dove  with 
his  hand  as  he  sat  on  the  seat  that  had  been  espe- 
cially prepared  for  him. 

The  Toyon's  face  was  kind,  and  when  Makar  be- 
came too  downcast  he  looked  at  it  and  felt  better. 

His  heart  was  heavy  because  he  was  suddenly  re- 
membering all  his  past  life  down  to  the  smallest 


38  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

detail;  he  remembered  every  step  he  had  taken, 
every  blow  of  his  axe,  every  tree  he  had  felled,  every 
deceit  he  had  practiced,  every  glass  of  vodka  he  had 
drunk. 

He  grew  frightened  and  ashamed,  but  he  took 
heart  as  he  looked  at  the  face  of  the  old  Toyon. 

And  as  he  took  heart  it  occurred  to  him  that 
there  might  be  some  things  he  could  manage  to  con- 
ceal. 

The  old  Toyon  looked  searchingly  at  him  and 
asked  him  who  he  was  and  whence  he  had  come,  what 
his  name  was  and  what  his  age  might  be. 

When  Makar  had  replied  to  his  questions,  the  old 
Toyon  asked : 

"What  have  you  done  in  your  life?" 

"You  know  that  yourself,"  answered  Makar. 
"Surely  it  is  written  in  your  book !" 

Makar  wanted  to  test  the  Toyon  and  find  out 
whether  everything  was  really  inscribed  there  or 
no. 

"Tell  me  yourself,"  answered  the  old  Toyon. 

Makar  took  courage. 

He  began  enumerating  all  his  works,  and  although 
he  remembered  every  blow  he  had  struck  with  his  axe, 
every  pole  he  had  cut,  and  every  furrow  he  had 
ploughed,  he  added  to  his  reckoning  thousands  of 
poles  and  hundreds  of  loads  of  wood  and  hundreds 
of  logs  and  hundreds  of  pounds  of  sown  seed. 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  39 

When  all  had  been  told,  the  old  Toyon  turned  to 
Father  Ivan  and  said: 

"Bring  hither  the  book." 

Makar  saw  from  this  that  Father  Ivan  was  secre- 
tary to  the  Toyon,  and  was  annoyed  that  the  other 
had  given  him  no  friendly  hint  of  the  fact. 

Father  Ivan  brought  the  great  book,  opened  it, 
and  began  to  read. 

"Just  look  and  see  how  many  poles  are  inscribed 
there,"  said  the  old  Toyon. 

Father  Ivan  looked  and  answered  sorrowfully : 

"He  added  a  round  three  thousand  to  his  reckon- 
ing." 

"It's  a  lie !"  shouted  Makar  vehemently.  "He  must 
be  wrong  because  he  was  a  drunkard  and  died  a 
wicked  death!" 

"Be  quiet!"  commanded  the  Toyon.  "Did  he 
charge  you  more  than  was  fair  for  christenings  and 
weddings?  Did  he  ever  press  you  for  tithes?" 

"Why  waste  words?"  answered  Makar. 

"You  see,"  the  Toyon  said,  "I  know  without  as- 
sistance from  you  that  he  was  fond  of  drink " 

And  the  old  Toyon  lost  his  temper.  "Read  his 
sins  from  the  book  now ;  he  is  a  cheat,  and  I  can't  be- 
lieve his  words !"  he  cried  to  Father  Ivan. 

Meanwhile  the  servants  were  heaping  into  the 
golden  bowl  all  Makar's  poles,  and  his  wood,  and 
his  ploughing,  and  all  his  work.  And  there  proved  to 
be  so  much  that  the  golden  bowl  sank,  and  the 


40  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

wooden  bowl  rose  out  of  reach,  high,  high  into  the 
air.  So  the  young  servants  of  God  flew  up  to  it  on 
their  pinions  and  hundreds  of  them  pulled  it  to  the 
floor  with  ropes. 

Heavy  is  the  labour  of  a  native  of  Chalgan! 

Then  Father  Ivan  began  adding  up  the  number  of 
frauds  that  Makar  had  committed,  and  there  proved 
to  be  twenty-one  thousand,  three  hundred  and  three. 
Then  he  added  up  the  number  of  bottles  of  vodka 
he  had  drunk,  and  there  proved  to  be  four  hundred. 
And  the  priest  read  on  and  Makar  saw  that  the 
wooden  bowl  was  pulling  on  the  gold  one;  it  sank 
into  the  hole,  and,  as  the  priest  read,  it  descended 
ever  deeper  and  deeper. 

Makar  realised  then  that  things  were  going  badly 
for  him;  he  stepped  up  to  the  scales  and  furtively 
tried  to  block  them  with  his  foot. 

But  one  of  the  servants  saw  it,  and  a  clamour  arose 
amongst  them. 

"What  is  the  matter  there?"  asked  the  old  Toy  on. 

"Why,  he  was  trying  to  block  the  scales  with  his 
foot!"  cried  the  servant. 

At  that  the  Toyon  turned  wrathfully  to  Makar, 
exclaiming : 

"I  see  that  you  are  a  cheat,  a  sluggard,  and  a 
drunkard.  You  have  left  your  arrears  unpaid  be- 
hind you,  you  owe  tithes  to  the  priest,  and  the  police- 
man is  steadily  sinning  on  your  account  by  swearing 
every  time  he  speaks  your  name." 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  41 

Then,  turning  to  Father  Ivan,  the  old  Toyon 
asked : 

"Who  in  Chalgan  gives  the  heaviest  loads  to  his 
horses  to  pull,  and  who  works  them  the  hardest?" 

Father  Ivan  answered : 

"The  church  warden.  He  carries  the  mail  and 
drives  the  district  policeman." 

To  that  the  Toyon  answered : 

"Hand  over  this  sluggard  to  the  church  warden 
for  a  horse  and  let  him  pull  the  policeman  until 
he  drops — we  shall  see  what  will  happen  next." 

Just  as  the  Toyon  was  saying  these  words,  the 
door  opened ;  his  son  entered  the  hut  and  sat  down 
at  his  right  hand. 

And  the  son  said: 

"I  have  heard  the  sentence  pronounced  by  you. 
I  have  lived  long  on  the  earth,  and  I  know  the  ways 
of  the  world.  It  will  be  hard  for  the  poor  man  to 
take  the  place  of  the  district  policeman's  horse. 
However,  so  be  it,  only  mayhap  he  still  has  some- 
thing to  say:  speak  baraksan!  (poor  fellow!)" 

Then  there  happened  a  strange  thing.  Makar, 
the  Makar  who  had  never  before  in  his  life  uttered 
more  than  ten  words  at  a  time,  suddenly  felt  himself 
possessed  of  the  gift  of  eloquence.  He  began  speak- 
ing, and  wondered  at  himself.  There  seemed  to  be 
two  Makars,  the  one  talking,  the  other  listening  and 
marvelling.  He  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  His 
discourse  flowed  from  his  lips  with  fluency  and  pas- 


42  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

sion;  the  words  pursued  one  another  swiftly,  and 
ranged  themselves  in  long  and  graceful  rows.  He 
did  not  hesitate.  If  by  any  chance  he  became  con- 
fused, he  corrected  himself  and  shouted  twice  louder 
than  before.  But  above  all  he  felt  that  his  words 
were  carrying  conviction. 

The  ancient  Toyon,  who  had  at  first  been  a  little 
annoyed  by  his  boldness,  began  listening  with  rapt 
attention,  as  if  he  were  being  persuaded  that  Makar 
was  not  the  fool  that  he  seemed  to  be.  Father  Ivan 
had  been  frightened  for  an  instant  and  had  plucked 
Makar  by  the  coat-tails,  but  Makar  had  pushed  him 
aside  and  continued  his  speech.  The  fears  of  the  old 
priest  were  quickly  allayed ;  he  even  beamed  at  Ma- 
kar as  he  heard  his  old  parishioner  boldly  declaring 
the  truth,  and  saw  that  that  truth  was  pleasing  to 
the  heart  of  the  ancient  Toyon.  Even  the  young 
servants  of  the  Toyon  with  their  long  gowns  and 
their  white  wings  came  out  of  their  quarters  and 
stood  in  the  doorways  listening  with  wonder  to 
Makar's  words,  nudging  one  another  with  their  el- 
bows. 

Makar  commenced  his  plea  by  saying  that  he  diet 
not  want  to  take  the  place  of  the  church  warden's 
horse.  Not  because  he  was  afraid  of  hard  work,  but 
because  the  sentence  was  unjust.  And  because  the 
sentence  was  unjust,  he  would  not  submit  to  it;  he 
would  not  do  a  stroke  of  work  nor  move  one  single 
foot.  Let  them  do  what  they  would  with  him !  Let 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  43 

them  hand  him  over  to  the  devils  forever,  he  would 
not  haul  the  policeman,  because  to  condemn  him  to 
do  so  was  an  injustice.  And  let  them  not  imagine 
that  he  was  afraid  of  being  a  horse.  Although 
the  church  warden  drove  his  horse  hard,  he  fed  him 
with  oats,  but  he,  Makar,  had  been  goaded  all  his 
life,  and  no  one  had  ever  fed  him. 

"Who  has  goaded  you?"  asked  the  Toyon. 

Yes,  all  his  life  long  he  had  been  goaded.  The 
bailiff  had  goaded  him;  the  tax  assessor  and  the 
policeman  had  goaded  him,  demanding  taxes  and 
tallage;  hunger  and  want  had  goaded  him;  cold 
and  heat,  rain  and  drought  had  goaded  him;  the 
frozen  earth  and  the  ruthless  forest  had  goaded 
him.  The  horse  had  trudged  on  with  its  eyes  on 
the  ground,  ignorant  of  its  journey's  end;  so  had  he 
trudged  through  life.  Had  he  known  the  meaning 
of  what  the  priest  read  in  church  or  for  what  his 
tithes  were  demanded?  Had  he  known  why  his  eldest 
son  had  been  taken  away  as  a  soldier  and  whither 
he  had  gone?  Had  he  known  where  he  had  died  and 
where  his  poor  bones  had  been  laid? 

He  had  drunk,  it  was  charged,  too  much  vodka ;  so 
he  had,  for  his  heart  had  craved  it. 

"How  many  bottles  did  you  say  that  he  drank?" 
the  Toyon  asked. 

"Four  hundred,"  answered  Father  Ivan,  with  a 
glance  at  the  book. 

That  might  be   so,  pleaded  Makar,   but  was  it 


44  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

really  all  vodka?  Three  quarters  of  it  was  water; 
only  one  quarter  was  vodka,  and  that  was  stiffened 
with  vile  mahorka.  Three  hundred  bottles  might 
well  be  deducted  from  his  account. 

"Is  what  he  says  true?"  asked  the  ancient  Toyon 
of  Father  Ivan,  and  it  was  plain  that  his  anger  was 
not  yet  appeased. 

"Absolutely  true,"  the  priest  answered  quickly, 
and  Makar  continued  his  tale. 

It  was  true  that  he  had  added  three  thousand 
poles  to  his  account,  but  what  if  he  had?  What 
if  he  had  only  cut  sixteen  thousand?  Was  that  so 
small  a  number?  Besides,  while  he  had  cut  two 
thousand  his  first  wife  had  been  ill.  His  heart  had 
been  aching,  he  had  longed  to  sit  by  her  bedside, 
but  want  had  driven  him  into  the  forest,  and  in  the 
forest  he  had  wept,  and  the  tears  had  frozen  on  his 
eye-lashes,  and  because  of  his  grief,  the  cold  had 
struck  into  his  very  heart,  and  still  he  had  chopped. 

And  then  his  old  woman  had  died.  He  had  to  bury 
her,  but  he  had  no  money  to  pay  for  the  burial.  So 
he  had  hired  himself  out  to  chop  wood  to  pay  for 
his  wife's  abode  in  the  world  beyond.  The  merchant 
had  seen  how  great  was  his  need,  and  had  only  paid 
him  ten  kopecks — and  his  old  woman  had  lain  all 
alone  in  the  icy  hut  while  he  had  once  more  chopped 
wood  and  wept.  Surely  each  one  of  those  loads 
should  be  counted  as  four  or  even  more ! 

Tears  rose  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  Toyon,  and  Makar 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  45 

saw  the  scales  trembling  and  the  wooden  bowl  rising 
as  the  golden  one  sank. 

And  still  he  talked  on. 

Everything  was  written  down  in  their  book,  he 
said,  let  them  look  and  see  if  any  one  had  ever  done 
him  a  kindness  or  brought  him  happiness  and  joy! 
Where  were  his  children?  If  they  had  died  his  heart 
had  been  heavy  and  sad;  if  they  had  lived  to  grow 
up  they  had  left  him,  to  carry  on  their  fight  alone 
with  their  own  grinding  needs.  So  he  had  remained 
to  grow  old  with  his  second  wife,  and  had  felt  his 
strength  failing  and  had  seen  that  a  pitiless,  home- 
less old  age  was  creeping  upon  him.  They  two  had 
stood  solitary  as  two  lorn  fir-trees  on  the  steppe, 
buffeted  on  every  hand  by  the  merciless  winds. 

"Is  that  true?"  asked  the  Toy  on  again,  and  the 
priest  hastened  to  answer : 

"Absolutely  true." 

And  the  scales  trembled  once  more — but  the  old 
Toyon  pondered. 

"How  is  this?"  he  asked.  "Have  I  not  many  on 
earth  who  are  truly  righteous  ?  Their  eyes  are  clear, 
their  faces  are  bright,  and  their  garments  are  with- 
out a  stain.  Their  hearts  are  mellow  as  well  tilled 
soil  in  which  flourishes  good  seed,  sending  up  strong 
and  fragrant  shoots  whose  odour  is  pleasant  to  my 
nostrils.  But  you — look  at  yourself!" 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  on  Makar,  and  he  felt 
ashamed.  He  knew  that  his  eyes  were  dim,  that  his 


46  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

face  was  dull,  that  his  hair  and  beard  were  unkempt, 
that  his  raiment  was  torn.  And  though  for  some 
time  before  his  death  he  had  intended  to  buy  a  pair 
of  new  boots  in  which  to  appear  at  the  Judgment,  he 
somehow  had  always  managed  to  drink  up  the  money, 
and  now  stood  before  the  Toyon  in  wretched  fur 
shoes  like  a  Yakut. 

"Your  face  is  dull,"  the  Toyon  went  on.  "Your 
eyes  are  bleared  and  your  clothes  are  torn.  Your 
heart  is  choked  with  weeds  and  thistles  and  bitter 
wormwood.  That  is  why  I  love  my  righteous  and 
turn  my  face  from  the  ungodly  such  as  you." 

Makar's  heart  contracted  and  he  blushed  for  his 
own  existence.  He  hung  his  head  for  a  moment  and 
then  suddenly  raised  it  and  took  up  his  tale  once 
more. 

Which  righteous  men  did  the  Toyon  mean?  he 
asked.  If  he  meant  those  that  lived  on  earth  in 
rich  houses  at  the  same  time  that  Makar  was  there, 
then  he  knew  all  about  them !  Their  eyes  were  clear 
because  they  had  not  shed  the  tears  he  had  shed; 
their  faces  were  bright  because  they  were  bathed 
in  perfume,  and  their  spotless  garments  were  sewn 
by  other  hands  than  their  own. 

Again  Makar  hung  his  head,  and  again  raised  it. 

And  did  not  the  Toyon  know  that  he  too  had  come 
into  the  world  as  they  had  with  clear,  candid  eyes 
in  which  heaven  and  earth  lay  reflected?  That  he 
had  been  born  with  a  pure  heart,  ready  to  expand  to 


MAKAR'S  DREAM  47 

all  the  beauty  of  the  world?  Whose  fault  was  it  if 
he  now  longed  to  hide  his  besmirched  and  dishon- 
oured head  under  the  ground?  He  could  not  say. 
But  this  he  did  know,  that  the  patience  of  his  soul 
was  exhausted! 

Of  course  Makar  would  have  been  calmer  could 
he  have  seen  the  effect  that  his  speech  was  having 
on  the  Toyon,  or  how  each  of  his  wrathful  words  fell 
into  the  golden  bowl  like  a  plummet  of  lead.  But  he 
saw  nothing  of  this  because  his  heart  was  over- 
whelmed with  blind  despair. 

He  had  gone  over  again  the  whole  of  his  bitter 
existence.  How  had  he  managed  to  bear  the  terrible 
burden  until  now?  He  had  borne  it  because  the  star 
of  hope  had  still  beckoned  him  onward,  shining  like 
a  watch-fire  through  mists  of  toil  and  doubt.  He 
was  alive,  therefore  he  might,  he  would,  know  a  hap- 
pier fate.  But  now  he  stood  at  the  end,  and  the  star 
had  gone  out. 

Darkness  fell  on  his  soul,  and  rage  broke  over  it 
as  a  tempest  breaks  over  the  steppe  in  the  night. 
He  forgot  who  he  was  and  before  whose  face  he 
stood;  he  forgot  all  but  his  wrath. 

But  the  old  Toyon  said  to  him: 

"Wait  a  moment,  baraksan !  You  are  not  on 
earth.  There  is  justice  here  for  you,  also." 

At  that  Makar  trembled.  The  idea  that  some  one 
pitied  him  dawned  upon  his  mind  and  filled  and  soft- 


48  MAKAR'S  DREAM 

ened  his  heart,  but  because  his  whole  miserable  exist- 
ence now  lay  exposed  before  him  from  his  first  day 
to  his  last,  unbearable  self-pity  overwhelmed  him  and 
he  burst  into  tears. 

And  the  ancient  Toyon  wept  with  him.  And  old 
Father  Ivan  wept,  and  the  young  servants  of  God 
shed  tears  and  wiped  them  away  with  their  wide 
sleeves. 

And  the  scales  wavered,  and  the  wooden  bowl  rose 
ever  higher  and  higher ! 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  POLYESIE  * 


THE  forest  was  murmuring. 

There  was  always  a  murmuring  in  this  forest,  long- 
drawn,  monotonous,  like  the  undertones  of  a  distant 
bell,  like  a  faint  song  without  words,  like  vague 
memories  of  the  past.  There  was  always  a  murmur- 
ing in  the  forest  because  it  was  a  dense  wood  of  an- 
cient pines,  untouched  as  yet  by  the  axe  and  saw  of 
the  timber  merchant.  The  tall,  century-old  trees 
with  their  mighty  red-brown  trunks  stood  in  frown- 
ing ranks,  proudly  thrusting  their  green,  inter- 
woven tops  aloft.  The  air  under  them  was  still  ancl 
sweet  with  resin;  bright  ferns  pierced  the  carpet  of 
needles  with  which  the  ground  was  clothed,  and  su- 
perbly displayed  their  motionless,  fringed  foliage. 
Tall,  green  grass-blades  had  shot  upward  in  the  moist 
places,  and  there,  too,  white  clover-heads  drooped 
heavily,  as  if  overcome  with  gentle  languor.  And 
always  overhead,  without  a  pause  and  without  an  end, 
droned  the  voice  of  the  forest,  the  low  sighing  of  the 
ancient  pines. 

*  The  Polyesie  (The  Woods),  a  district  in  southwestern  or 
Little  Russia. 

51 


52  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

But  now  these  sighs  had  grown  deeper  and  louder. 
I  was  riding  along  a  woodland  path,  and  although 
the  sky  was  invisible,  I  knew,  under  the  darkly  frown- 
ing trees,  that  a  storm  was  gathering  overhead.  The 
hour  was  late.  A  few  last  rays  of  sunlight  were  still 
filtering  in  here  and  there  between  the  tree-trunks, 
but  misty  shadows  had  already  begun  to  gather  in  the 
thickets.  A  thunderstorm  was  brewing  for  the  night. 
I  was  forced  to  abandon  all  idea  of  continuing  the 
chase  that  day,  and  could  only  think  of  reaching  a 
night's  lodging  before  the  storm  broke.  My  horse 
struck  his  hoof  against  a  bare  root,  snorted,  and 
pricked  his  ears,  harkening  to  the  muffled  impacts  of 
the  forest  echo.  Then  of  his  own  accord  he  turned 
his  steps  into  the  well-known  path  that  led  to  the  hut 
of  the  forest  guard. 

A  dog  barked.  White  plastered  walls  gleamed 
among  the  thinning  tree-trunks,  a  blue  wisp  of  smoke 
appeared,  curling  upward  under  the  overshadowing 
branches,  and  a  lop-sided  cottage  with  a  dilapidated 
roof  stood  before  me,  sheltering  under  a  wall  of  ruddy 
tree-trunks.  It  seemed  to  have  sunk  down  upon  the 
ground,  while  the  proud  graceful  pines  nodded  their 
heads,  high,  high  above  it.  In  the  centre  of  the 
clearing  stood  two  oak  trees,  huddling  close  to  one 
another. 

Here  lived  the  foresters  Zakhar  and  Maksim,  the 
invariable  companions  of  my  hunting  expeditions. 
But  now  they  were  evidently  away  from  home,  for 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  53 

no  one  came  out  of  the  house  at  the  barking  of  the 
great  collie.  Only  their  old  grandfather  with  his 
bald  head  and  his  grey  whiskers  was  sitting  on  a 
bench  outside  the  door,  braiding  shoes  of  bast.  The 
old  man's  beard  swept  almost  to  his  belt;  his  eyes 
were  vague  as  if  he  were  trying  in  vain  to  remember 
something. 

"Good  evening,  daddy!    Is  any  one  at  home?" 

"Eh,  hey,"  mumbled  the  old  man,  shaking  his 
head;  "neither  Zakhar  nor  Maksim  is  here  and 
Motria  has  gone  into  the  wood  for  the  cow.  The  cow 
has  run  away ;  perhaps  the  bears  have  eaten  her. 
And  so  there  is  no  one  in  the  cottage." 

"Well,  well,  never  mind.  I'll  sit  here  with  you  and 
wait." 

"Yes,  sit  down  and  wait !"  the  old  man  nodded,  and 
watched  me  with  dim,  watery  eyes  as  I  tied  my  horse 
to  the  branch  of  one  of  the  oaks.  The  old  man  was 
failing  fast.  He  was  nearly  blind  and  his  hands 
trembled. 

"And  who  are  you,  lad?"  he  asked,  as  I  sat  down 
on  the  bench. 

I  was  accustomed  to  hearing  this  question  at  every 
visit. 

"Eh,  hey ;  now  I  know,  now  I  know,"  said  the  old 
man,  resuming  his  work  on  the  shoe.  "My  old  head 
is  like  a  sieve ;  nothing  stays  in  it  now.  I  remember 
people  who  died  a  long  time  ago,  oh,  I  remember  them 


54  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

well !  But  I  forget  new  people.  I  have  lived  in  this 
world  a  long  time." 

"Have  you  lived  in  this  forest  long,  daddy?" 

"Eh,  hey ;  a  long  time !  When  the  Frenchmen 
came  into  the  Tsar's  country  I  was  here." 

"You  have  seen  much  in  your  day.  You  must 
have  many  stories  to  tell." 

The  old  man  looked  at  me  with  surprise. 

"And  what  would  I  have  seen,  lad?  I  have  seen 
the  forest.  The  forest  murmurs  night  and  day, 
winter  and  summer.  One  hundred  years  have  I  lived 
in  this  forest  like  that  tree  there  without  heeding  the 
passage  of  time.  And  now  I  must  go  to  my  grave, 
and  sometimes  I  can't  tell,  myself,  whether  I  have 
lived  in  this  world  or  not.  Eh,  hey ;  yes,  yes.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  I  have  not  lived  at  all." 

A  corner  of  the  dark  cloud  moved  out  over  the 
clearing  from  behind  the  close-growing  tree-tops,  and 
the  pines  that  stood  about  the  clearing  rocked  in  the 
first  gusts  of  wind.  The  murmur  of  the  forest  swelled 
into  a  great  resonant  chord.  The  old  man  raised 
his  head  and  listened. 

"A  storm  is  coming,"  he  said  after  a  pause. 
"I  know.  Oi,  oi!  A  storm  will  howl  to-night,  and 
will  break  the  pines  and  tear  them  up  by  the  roots. 
The  Master  of  the  forest  will  come  out." 

"How  do  you  know  that,  daddy?" 

"Eh,  hey ;  I  know  it !  I  know  what  the  trees  are 
saying.  Trees  know  what  fear  is  as  well  as  we  do. 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  55 

There's  the  aspen,  a  worthless  tree  that's  always  get- 
ting broken  to  pieces.  It  trembles  even  when  there 
is  no  wind.  The  pines  in  the  forest  sing  and  play, 
but  if  the  wind  rises  ever  so  little  they  raise  their 
voices  and  groan.  This  is  nothing  yet.  There,  listen 
to  that!  Although  my  eyes  see  badly,  my  ears  can 
hear:  that  was  an  oak  tree  rustling.  The  oaks  have 
been  touched  in  the  clearing.  The  storm  is  coming." 

And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  pair  of  low,  gnarled 
oak  trees  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  clearing, 
protected  by  the  high  wall  of  the  forest,  now  waved 
their  strong  branches  and  gave  forth  a  muffled  rus- 
tling easily  distinguishable  from  the  clear,  resonant 
notes  of  the  pines. 

"Eh,  hey;  do  you  hear  that,  lad?"  asked  the  old 
man  with  a  childishly  cunning  smile.  "When  tKe 
oak  trees  mutter  like  that,  it  means  that  the  Master 
is  coming  out  at  night  to  break  them.  But  no,  he 
won't  break  them!  The  oak  is  a  strong  tree,  too 
strong  even  for  the  Master.  Yes  indeed!" 

"What  Master,  daddy?  You  say  yourself  it  is  the 
storm  that  breaks  them." 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  with  a  crafty  look. 

"Eh,  hey;  I  know  that!  They  tell  me  there  are 
some  people  in  the  world  these  days  who  don't  be- 
lieve in  anything.  Yes  indeed!  But  I  have  seen 
him  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  now,  and  better,  because 
my  eyes  are  old  now,  and  they  were  young  then.  Oi, 
oi !  How  well  I  could  see  when  I  was  young !" 


56  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

"When  did  you  see  him,  daddy?    Tell  me,  do!" 

"It  was  an  evening  just  like  this.  The  pines  be- 
gan to  groan  in  the  forest.  First  they  sang  and 
then  they  groaned:  oh-ah-o-oh-a-h !  And  then  they 
stopped,  and  then  they  began  again  louder  and  more 
pitifully  than  ever.  Eh,  hey ;  they  groaned  because 
they  knew  that  the  Master  would  throw  down  many 
of  them  that  night !  And  then  the  oak  trees  began  to 
talk.  And  toward  evening  things  grew  worse  until  lie 
came  whirling  along  with  the  night.  He  ran  through 
the  forest  laughing  and  crying,  dancing  and  spin- 
ning, and  always  swooping  down  on  those  oak  trees 
and  trying  to  tear  them  up  by  the  roots.  And  once 
in  the  Autumn  I  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  he 
didn't  like  that.  He  came  rushing  up  to  the  window 
and,  bang-bang,  he  broke  it  with  a  pine  knot.  He 
nearly  hit  my  face,  bad  luck  to  him !  But  I'm  no 
fool.  I  jumped  back.  Eh,  hey;  lad,  that's  the  sort 
of  a  quarrelsome  fellow  he  is !" 

"But  what  does  he  look  like?" 

"He  looks  exactly  like  an  old  willow  tree  in  a 
marsh.  Just  exactly !  His  hair  is  like  dry  mistletoe 
on  a  tree,  and  his  beard  too ;  but  his  nose  is  like  a 
big  fat  pine  knot  and  his  mouth  is  as  twisted  as  if  it 
were  all  overgrown  with  lichen.  Bah,  how  ugly  he 
is !  God  pity  any  Christian  that  looks  like  him !  Yes 
indeed !  I  saw  him  once  quite  close,  in  a  swamp.  If 
you'll  come  here  in  the  winter  you  can  see  him  for 
yourself.  You  must  go  in  that  direction,  up  that 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  57 

hill — it  is  covered  with  woods — and  climb  to  the  very 
top  of  the  highest  tree.  He  can  sometimes  be  seen 
from  there  racing  along  over  the  tree-tops,  carrying 
a  white  staff  in  his  hand,  and  whirling,  whirling  until 
he  whirls  down  the  hill  into  the  valley.  Then  he  runs 
away  and  disappears  into  the  forest.  Eh,  hey !  And 
wherever  he  steps  he  leaves  a  foot-print  of  white 
snow.  If  you  don't  believe  an  old  man  come  and  see 
for  yourself." 

The  old  man  babbled  on;  the  excited,  anxious 
voices  of  the  forest  and  the  impending  storm  seemed 
to  have  set  his  old  blood  racing.  The  aged  gaffer 
laughed  and  blinked  his  faded  eyes. 

But  suddenly  a  shadow  flitted  across  his  high, 
wrinkled  forehead.  He  nudged  me  with  his  elbow 
and  said  with  a  mysterious  look : 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  lad.  Of  course  the 
Master  of  the  forest  is  a  worthless,  good-for-noth- 
ing creature,  that  is  true.  It  disgusts  a  Christian  to 
see  an  ugly  face  like  his,  but  let  me  tell  you  the  truth 
about  him:  he  never  does  any  one  any  harm.  He 
plays  jokes  on  people,  of  course,  but  as  for  hurting 
them,  he  never  would  do  that!" 

"But  you  said  yourself,  daddy,  that  he  tried  to 
hit  you  with  a  pine  knot." 

"Eh,  hey;  he  tried  to!  But  he  was  angry  then 
because  I  was  looking  at  him  through  the  window; 
yes  indeed !  But  if  you  don't  go  poking  your  nose 
into  his  affairs  he'll  never  play  you  a  dirty  trick. 


58  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

That's  what  he's  like.  Worse  things  have  been  done 
by  men  than  by  him  in  this  forest.  Eh,  hey;  they 
have  indeed !" 

The  old  man's  head  dropped  forward  on  to  his 
breast  and  he  sat  silent  for  several  minutes.  Then 
he  looked  at  me,  and  a  ray  of  awakening  memory 
seemed  to  gleam  through  the  film  that  fogged  his 
eyes. 

"I'll  tell  you  an  old  story  of  our  forest,  lad.  It 
happened  here  in  this  very  place,  a  long,  long  time 
ago.  Almost  always  I  remember  it  as  in  a  dream. 
But  when  the  forest  begins  to  talk  more  loudly,  I 
remember  it  well.  Shall  I  tell  it  to  you?" 

"Yes,  do,  daddy !    Tell  me !" 

"Very  well,  I'll  tell  you ;  eh,  hey !    Listen !" 


II 


My  father  and  mother  died,  you  know,  a  long  time 
ago  when  I  was  only  a  little  lad.  They  left  me 
in  the  world  alone.  That's  what  happened  to  me, 
eh,  hey!  Well,  the  village  warden  looked  at  me 
and  thought:  "What  shall  we  do  with  this  boy?" 
And  the  lord  of  the  manor  thought  the  same  thing. 
And  at  that  time  Raman,  the  forest  guard,  came 
out  of  the  forest,  and  he  said  to  the  warden:  "Let 
me  have  that  boy  to  take  back  to  my  cottage  with 
me.  I'll  take  good  care  of  him.  It  will  be  company 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  59 

for  me  in  the  forest  and  he  will  be  fed."  That's 
what  he  said,  and  the  warden  answered:  "Take 
him !"  So  he  took  me.  And  I  have  lived  in  the  forest 
ever  since. 

Raman  brought  me  up  here.  God  forbid  that  any 
one  should  look  as  terrible  as  he  did !  His  eyes  were 
black,  his  hair  was  black,  and  a  dark  soul  looked 
out  of  his  eyes  because  the  man  had  lived  alone  in 
the  forest  all  his  life.  The  bears,  people  said,  were 
his  brothers  and  the  wolves  were  his  nephews.  He 
knew  all  the  wild  animals  and  was  afraid  of  none, 
but  he  kept  away  from  people  and  wouldn't  even 
look  at  them.  That's  what  he  was  like.  It's  the 
honest  truth.  When  he  looked  at  me  I  felt  as  if  a 
cat  were  tickling  my  back  with  its  tail.  But  he  was 
a  good  man  all  the  same,  and  I  must  say  he  fed  me 
well.  We  always  had  buckwheat  porridge  with 
grease,  and  a  duck  if  he  happened  to  kill  one.  Yes, 
he  fed  me  well ;  it's  the  truth  and  I  must  say  it. 

So  we  two  lived  together.  Raman  used  to  go  out 
into  the  forest  every  day  and  lock  me  up  in  the  cot- 
tage so  that  the  wild  animals  shouldn't  eat  me.  Then 
they  gave  him  a  wife  called  Aksana. 

The  Count,  who  was  the  lord  of  the  manor,  gave 
him  his  wife.  He  called  Raman  to  the  village  and 
said  to  him: 

"Come,  Raman,  you  must  marry." 

"How  can  I  marry?    What  should  I  do  with  a  wife 


60  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

in  the  forest  when  I  already  have  a  boy  there?  I 
don't  want  to  marry !"  he  said. 

He  wasn't  used  to  girls,  that's  what  the  matter 
was.  But  the  Count  was  sly.  When  I  remember 
him,  lad,  I  think  to  myself:  there  are  no  men  like 
him  now,  they  are  all  gone.  Take  yourself,  for 
instance.  They  say  you  are  a  Count's  son  too.  That 
may  be  true,  but  you  haven't  got  the — well  the  real 
thing,  in  you.  You're  a  miserable  little  snip  of  a 
boy,  that's  all  you  are. 

But  he  was  a  real  one,  just  as  they  used  to  be. 
You  may  think  it  a  funny  thing  that  a  hundred  men 
should  tremble  before  one,  but  look  at  the  falcon, 
boy,  and  the  chicken!  Both  are  hatched  out  of  an 
egg,  but  the  falcon  longs  to  soar  as  soon  as  his  wings 
are  strong.  Then,  when  he  screams  in  the  sky,  how 
not  only  the  little  chickens  but  the  old  cocks  run! 
The  noble  is  a  falcon,  the  peasant  is  a  hen. 

I  remember  when  I  was  a  little  boy  seeing  thirty 
peasants  hauling  heavy  logs  out  of  the  forest  and 
the  Count  riding  along  alone  on  his  horse,  twirling 
his  whiskers.  The  horse  under  him  was  prancing,  but 
he  kept  looking  from  side  to  side.  Oi,  oi !  When  the 
peasants  met  the  Count,  how  they  got  out  of  his 
way,  turning  their  horses  aside  into  the  snow,  and 
how  they  took  off  their  caps !  They  had  heavy  work 
afterwards  pulling  the  logs  out  of  the  snow  back  on 
to  the  road  while  the  Count  galloped  away.  The 
road  had  been  too  narrow  for  him  to  pass  the  peas- 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  61 

ants  of  course !  Whenever  the  Count  moved  an  eye- 
brow the  peasants  trembled.  When  he  laughed,  they 
laughed;  when  he  frowned,  they  cried.  No  one  ever 
opposed  the  Count;  it  had  never  been  done. 

But  Raman  had  grown  up  in  the  forest  and  did 
not  know  the  ways  of  the  world,  so  the  Count  was 
not  very  angry  when  he  refused  the  girl. 

"I  want  you  to  marry,"  the  Count  said.  "Why  I 
want  you  to  do  it  is  my  business.  Take  Aksana." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  answered  Raman.  "I  don't 
want  her.  Let  the  Devil  marry  her,  I  won't !  There 
now!" 

The  Count  ordered  a  knout  to  be  brought.  They 
stretched  Raman  out,  and  the  Count  asked  him: 

"Will  you  marry,  Raman?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  won't." 

"Then  give  it  to  him  on  the  back,"  commanded  the 
Count,  "as  hard  as  you  can  lay  it  on." 

They  gave  it  to  him  good  and  hard.  Raman  was 
a  strong  man,  but  he  got  tired  of  it  at  last. 

"All  right,  stop !"  he  cried.  "That's  enough.  May 
all  the  devils  in  hell  take  her!  I  won't  suffer  this 
torture  for  any  woman  !  Give  her  to  me ;  I'll  marry 
her!" 

Now  there  lived  at  the  Count's  castle  a  huntsman 
named  Opanas.  Opanas  came  riding  in  from  the 
fields  just  as  they  were  persuading  Raman  to  be 
married.  He  heard  Raman's  trouble  and  fell  at  the 
Count's  feet.  He  fell  down  and  kissed  them. 


62  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

"What's  the  use  of  thrashing  that  man,  kind  mas- 
ter?" he  asked.  "Better  let  me  marry  Aksana  with 
a  free  will." 

Eh,  hey ;  he  wanted  to  marry  her  himself.  That's 
what  he  wanted,  yes  indeed ! 

So  Raman  was  pleased  and  grew  happy  again.  He 
got  up  and  tied  up  his  breeches  and  said : 

"That's  splendid!"  says  he.  "But  why  couldn't 
you  have  come  a  little  sooner,  man?  And  the  Count 
too — that's  how  it  always  is !  Wouldn't  it  have  been 
better  to  have  found  out  first  who  wanted  to  marry 
her?  Instead  of  that  they  grab  the  first  man  that 
comes  along  and  begin  flogging  him !  Do  you  think 
that  is  Christian?"  he  asked.  "Bah!" 

Eh,  hey;  he  didn't  have  any  mercy  on  the  Count, 
that's  the  sort  of  man  Raman  was.  When  he  got 
angry  it  was  safest  to  keep  out  of  his  way,  even  for  a 
Count.  But  the  Count  was  sly !  You  see  he  was 
after  something.  He  ordered  Raman  to  be  stretched 
out  on  the  grass. 

"I  want  to  make  you  happy,  fool !"  he  cried.  "And 
you  turn  up  your  nose  at  me !  You  are  living  alone 
now  like  a  bear  in  his  den ;  it  is  dull  for  me  when  I 
come  to  see  you.  Lay  it  on  to  the  fool  until  he  says 
he  has  had  enough !  As  for  you  Opanas,  go  to  the 
devil !  You  weren't  asked  to  this  party,"  he  said. 
"So  don't  sit  down  at  the  table  unless  you  want  to 
be  entertained  like  Raman." 

But  Raman's  anger  had  gone  beyond  joking  by 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  63 

that  time,  eh,  hey!  They  tickled  him  well,  and, 
you  know,  people  in  those  days  could  take  a  man's 
hide  off  beautifully  with  a  knout,  but  he  lay  quite 
still  and  never  said :  that's  enough !  He  endured  it  a 
long  time,  but  at  last  he  spat  and  cried : 

"It's  not  right  to  baste  a  Christian  like  this  for 
a  woman  without  even  counting  the  stripes !  That's 
enough !  And  may  your  hands  shrivel  and  drop  off, 
you  accursed  servants !  The  devil  himself  must  have 
taught  you  to  use  the  knout.  Do  you  think  I'm  a 
bundle  of  wheat  on  a  threshing  floor  that  you  beat 
me  like  this?  If  that's  your  idea,  I'm  going  to  get 
married." 

Then  the  Count  laughed. 

"That's  splendid!"  he  cried.  "Though  you  won't 
be  able  to  sit  down  at  your  wedding,  you  will  dance 
all  the  livelier." 

The  Count  was  a  jolly  man,  indeed  he  was,  eh, 
hey!  Something  bad  happened  to  him  afterwards 
though;  God  forbid  that  anything  like  that  should 
ever  happen  to  any  Christian !  I  wouldn't  wish  it  for 
any  one.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  wish  it  even  for  a 
Jew.  That's  what  I  think  about  it. 

Well,  they  got  Raman  married.  He  brought  his 
young  wife  to  this  cottage,  and  at  first  he  did  nothing 
but  scold  her  and  blame  her  for  his  thrashing. 

"You're  not  worth  a  thrashing  to  any  man!"  he 
used  to  say. 


64  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

As  soon  as  he  came  home  out  of  the  forest  he  would 
chase  her  out  of  the  house  shouting: 

"Away  with  you !  I  don't  want  a  woman  in  my 
house !  Don't  let  me  see  you  here  again !  I  don't 
like  to  have  a  woman  sleeping  here.  I  don't  like  the 
smell." 

Eh,  hey ! 

But  later  he  got  used  to  her.  Aksana  swept 
out  the  hut  and  painted  it  to  look  nice  and  clean,  and 
put  the  china  neatly  away,  and  at  last  everything 
shone  so  brightly  that  one's  heart  grew  merry  at 
the  sight  of  it.  Raman  saw  what  a  good  woman  she 
was,  and  little  by  little  he  got  used  to  her.  Yes,  he 
not  only  got  used  to  her,  lad,  he  began  to  love  her. 
Yes  indeed,  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  That's  what 
happened  to  Raman.  When  he  found  out  what  the 
woman  was  like  he  said: 

"Thanks  to  the  Count  I  have  learnt  what  a  good 
thing  is.  What  a  fool  I  was !  How  many  stripes  I 
took,  and  now  I  see  that  it  isn't  so  bad  after  all !  It 
is  even  good.  That's  the  truth !" 

And  so  some  time  passed,  I  don't  know  exactly  how 
much.  Then  one  day  Aksana  lay  down  on  a  bench 
and  began  to  groan.  That  evening  she  was  ill,  and 
when  I  woke  up  in  the  morning  I  heard  a  shrill  little 
voice  squeaking.  Eh,  hey,  I  thought  to  myself,  I 
know  what  has  happened,  a  baby  has  been  born !  And 
so  it  had. 

The  baby  did  not  stay  long  in  this  world.     Only 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  65 

from  that  morning  until  night.  It  stopped  squeak- 
ing in  the  evening.  Aksana  cried,  but  Raman  said: 

"The  child  has  gone,  so  now  we  won't  call  in  the 
priest.  We  can  bury  it  ourselves  under  a  pine  tree." 

That's  what  Raman  said.  And  he  not  only  said 
it,  he  did  it.  He  dug  a  little  grave  under  a  tree  and 
buried  the  child.  There  stands  the  old  stump  of  the 
tree  to  this  day.  It  has  been  split  by  lightning.  Yes, 
that  is  the  same  pine  tree  under  which  Raman  buried 
the  child.  And  I'll  tell  you  something,  boy:  to  this 
day  when  the  sun  goes  down  and  the  stars  shine  out 
over  the  forest  a  little  bird  comes  flying  to  that  tree 
and  cries.  It  pipes  so  sadly,  poor  little  bird, 
that  one's  heart  aches  to  hear  it.  It  is  the  little 
unchristened  soul  crying  for  a  cross.  A  learned  man, 
they  say,  who  knows  things  out  of  books,  could  give 
it  a  cross  and  then  it  would  not  fly  about  any  more. 
But  we  live  here  in  the  forest  and  don't  know  any- 
thing. It  comes  flying  up  begging  for  help  and  all 
we  can  say  is :  "You  poor,  poor  little  soul,  we  can't 
do  anything  for  you!"  So  then  it  cries  and  flies 
away,  and  next  day  it  comes  back  again.  Ah,  boy, 
I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  little  soul ! 

Well,  when  Aksana  got  well  again  she  was  always 
going  to  the  grave.  She  would  sit  on  the  grave  and 
cry ;  sometimes  she  would  cry  so  loudly  that  her  voice 
could  be  heard  through  the  whole  forest.  She  was 
grieving  for  her  baby,  but  Raman  did  not  grieve  for 


66  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

the  baby,  he  grieved  for  her.  He  used  to  come  back 
out  of  the  forest  and  stand  by  Aksana  and  say: 

"Be  quiet,  silly  woman!  What  is  there  to  cry 
for?  One  child  has  died  but  there  may  be  an- 
other. And  a  better  one,  perhaps !  Because  that 
one  may  not  have  been  mine,  I  don't  know  whether 
it  was  or  not,  but  the  next  one  will  be  mine !" 

Aksana  did  not  like  it  when  he  talked  like  that. 
She  would  stop  crying  and  begin  to  howl  at  him  with 
bad  words.  Then  Raman  would  get  angry. 

"What  are  you  howling  for?"  he  would  ask.  "I 
didn't  say  anything  of  the  kind.  I  only  said  I  didn't 
know.  And  the  reason  I  don't  know  is  because  you 
were  living  in  the  world  among  men  then,  and  not  in 
the  forest.  So  how  can  I  be  sure?  Now  you  arc  liv- 
ing in  the  forest;  now  it  is  all  right.  Old  granny 
Feodosia  said  when  I  went  to  the  village  to  fetch  her : 
'Your  baby  came  very  quickly,  Raman.'  And  I  said 
to  the  old  woman :  'How  do  I  know  whether  it  came 
quickly  or  not?'  But  come  now,  stop  bawling  or  I'll 
get  angry,  and  might  even  beat  you." 

Well,  Aksana  would  shout  at  him  for  a  while  and 
then  she  would  stop.  She  would  scold  him  and  hit 
him  on  the  back,  but  when  Raman  began  to  get  angry 
himself  she  would  grow  quiet.  She  would  be  fright- 
ened. She  used  to  embrace  him  then,  and  kiss  him, 
and  look  into  his  eyes.  Then  my  Raman  would  grow 
quiet  again.  Because,  you  know,  lad — but  you  prob- 
ably don't  know,  though  I  do,  even  if  I  have  never 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  67 

married,  because  I'm  an  old  man — I  know  that  a 
young  woman  is  so  sweet  to  kiss  that  she  can  twist 
any  man  around  her  finger  at  will  no  matter  how 
angry  he  is.  Oi,  oi,  I  know  what  these  women  are ! 
And  Aksana  was  a  tidy  young  thing ;  one  doesn't  see 
her  like  now-a-days.  I'll  tell  you,  lad,  women  are  not 
what  they  were. 

Well,  one  day  a  horn  blew  in  the  forest:  tara- 
tara-ta-ta !  That's  how  it  echoed  through  the  forest, 
clearly  and  gaily.  I  was  a  little  fellow  then  and 
didn't  know  what  it  was.  I  saw  the  birds  rising  from 
their  nests  and  flapping  their  wings  and  screaming, 
and  I  saw  the  hares  skipping  over  the  ground  with 
their  ears  laid  back,  as  fast  as  they  could  scamper. 
I  thought  perhaps  it  was  some  unknown  wild  animal 
making  that  pretty  noise.  But  it  was  not  a  wild 
animal,  it  was  the  Count  trotting  through  the  forest 
on  his  horse  and  blowing  his  horn.  Behind  him  came 
his  huntsmen  leading  their  hounds  on  the  leash.  The 
handsomest  of  all  the  huntsmen  was  Opanas,  caracol- 
ing behind  the  Count  dressed  in  a  long  blue  Cossack 
coat.  Opanas'  cap  had  a  peaked  golden  crown,  his 
horse  was  capering  under  him,  his  carbine  was  glisten- 
ing on  his  back,  and  his  bandura  *  was  slung  across 
his  shoulder  by  a  strap.  The  Count  liked  Opanas 
because  he  played  well  on  the  bandura  and  was  an 
expert  at  singing  songs.  Ah,  this  lad  Opanas  was 

*  Bandura,  an  ancient  oriental  musical  instrument  of  the 
lute  family. 


68  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

handsome,  terribly  handsome !  The  Count  simply 
didn't  compare  with  Opanas.  The  Count  was  bald 
and  his  nose  was  red  and  his  eyes,  though  they  were 
merry,  were  not  like  those  of  Opanas !  When  Opanas 
looked  at  me — at  me,  a  little  whipper-snapper — I 
couldn't  help  laughing,  and  I  wasn't  a  young  girl! 
People  said  that  Opanas'  father  was  a  Cossack  from 
beyond  the  Dnieper ;  every  one  there  is  handsome  and 
nimble  and  sleek.  And  think,  boy,  the  difference 
there  is  between  flying  across  the  plains  like  a  bird 
with  a  horse  and  a  lance,  and  chopping  wood  with 


an  axe 


Well,  I  ran  out  of  the  hut  and  looked,  and  there 
came  the  Count  and  stopped  right  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  the  huntsmen  stopped  too.  Raman  ran 
out  of  the  hut  and  held  the  Count's  stirrup  and  the 
Count  climbed  down  from  his  horse.  Raman  bowed 
to  him. 

"Good  day !"  the  Count  says  to  Raman. 

"Eh,  hey,"  answers  Raman.  "I'm  very  well, 
thanks,  and  how  are  you?" 

You  see,  Raman  didn't  know  how  to  answer  the 
Count  as  he  ought  to  have  done.  The  attendants  all 
laughed  at  his  words  and  the  Count  laughed  too. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  are  well,"  says  the  Count. 
"And  where  is  your  wife?" 

"Where  should  my  wife  be?  My  wife  is  in  the 
hut." 

"Then   we'll  go   into   the  hut,"   says   the   Count. 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  69 

"And  meanwhile  light  a  fire,  lads,  and  prepare  some- 
thing to  eat,  for  we  have  come  to  congratulate  the 
young  couple." 

So  they  went  into  the  hut;  the  Count,  and  Opa- 
nas,  and  Raman  bareheaded  behind  them  with  Bog- 
dan,  the  oldest  of  the  huntsmen  and  the  Count's 
faithful  servant.  There  are  no  servants  like  him  in 
the  world  now. 

Bogdan  was  old  and  ruled  the  other  attendants 
sternly,  but  in  the  Count's  presence  he  was  like  that 
dog  there.  There  was  no  one  in  the  world  for  Bogdan 
except  the  Count.  People  said  that  when  Bogdan's 
father  and  mother  had  died  he  had  asked  the  old 
Count  for  a  house  and  land,  for  he  wanted  to  marry. 
But  the  old  Count  would  not  allow  it.  He  made  him 
the  young  Count's  servant  and  said:  "There  are 
your  mother  and  father  and  wife !"  So  Bogdan  took 
the  boy  and  taught  him  to  ride  and  shoot.  And  the 
young  Count  grew  up  and  began  to  rule  in  his 
father's  place,  and  old  Bogdan  still  followed  him  like 
a  dog. 

Okh,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  Many  people  have 
cursed  Bogdan ;  many  tears  have  fallen  because  of 
him,  and  all  on  account  of  the  Count.  At  one  word 
from  the  Count,  Bogdan  would  have  torn  his  own 
father  to  shreds. 

Well,  I  was  a  little  fellow,  and  I  ran  into  the  house 
behind  the  Count.  I  was  curious  to  .see  what  would 
happen.  Wherever  he  went  I  went  too. 


70  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

Well,  I  looked,  and  there,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  hut,  I  saw  the  Count  stroking  his  whiskers  and 
laughing.  And  there  was  Raman  standing  first  on 
one  foot  and  then  on  another,  crushing  his  hat  in 
his  hands,  and  there,  too,  was  Opanas  leaning  against 
the  wall,  looking,  poor  fellow,  like  a  young  oak  in 
a  storm.  He  was  frowning  and  sad. 

All  three  were  turned  toward  Aksana.  Only  old 
Bogdan  was  sitting  on  a  bench  in  a  corner  with  his 
top-knot  *  hanging  down,  waiting  for  the  Count  to 
give  him  an  order.  Aksana  was  standing  in  a  corner 
by  the  stove  with  her  eyes  on  the  floor,  as  crimson 
as  that  poppy  there  in  the  barley.  Okh,  it  was  plain 
the  witch  felt  that  something  wicked  was  about  to 
happen  because  of  her.  Let  me  tell  you  something, 
lad:  if  three  men  stand  looking  at  one  woman  noth- 
ing good  ever  comes  of  it.  Hair  is  sure  to  fly,  if 
nothing  worse.  I  know  that,  because  I  have  seen  i£ 
happen  myself. 

"How  now,  Raman,  lad?"  laughed  the  Count. 
"Did  I  give  you  a  good  wife  or  not?" 

"Not  bad,"  answered  Raman.  "The  woman  will 
do." 

Here  Opanas  shrugged  his  shoulders,  raised  his 
eyes  to  Aksana,  and  muttered: 

"What  a  woman  she  is !  If  only  that  goose  hadn't 
got  her !" 

*  The  Little  Russians  shave  their  heads  bare,  leaving  only  a 
long  tuft  of  hair  in  the  middle. 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  71 

Raman  overheard  the  words  and  turned  to  Opanas 
and  said: 

"Why  do  I  seem  a  goose  to  you,  Lord  Opanas? 
Eh,  hey ;  tell  me  that !" 

"Because  you  don't  know  how  to  protect  your 
wife ;  that's  why  you're  a  goose." 

That's  what  Opanas  said  to  him!  The  Count 
stamped  his  foot.  Bogdan  shook  his  head,  but  Ra- 
man thought  a  minute  and  then  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  the  Count. 

"Why  should  I  protect  her?"  he  asked  Opanas, 
but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Count.  "There's  no 
one  here  in  the  forest  except  wild  beasts,  unless  it 
is  our  gracious  Count  when  he  comes.  Whom  should 
I  protect  her  from?  Look  out,  you  misbegotten 
Cossack  you,  don't  provoke  me,  or  before  you  know 
it  I'll  have  you  by  the  forelock !" 

And  perhaps  the  business  would  have  ended  in  a 
thrashing  if  the  Count  hadn't  interfered.  He 
stamped  his  foot,  and  every  one  was  silent. 

"Gently  there,  you  Devil's  spawn,"  he  said.  "You 
didn't  come  here  to  fight.  Congratulate  the  young 
people  first,  and  then  in  the  evening  we'll  go  hunting 
on  the  marsh.  Here,  follow  me !" 

The  Count  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  hut. 
The  attendants  had  already  spread  a  dinner  under 
the  trees.  Bogdan  followed  the  Count,  but  Opanas 
stayed  with  Raman  in  the  front  entry. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  brother,"  said  the  Cos- 


72  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

sack.  "Listen  to  what  Opanas  has  to  tell  you.  You 
saw  how  I  rolled  in  the  dust  at  the  Count's  feet,  and 
kissed  his  boots,  and  begged  him  to  give  me  Aksana? 
Well,  God  bless  you,  man !  The  priest  has  tied  you 
up;  it's  your  luck,  I  see,  but  my  heart  can't  stand 
that  wicked  fellow  making  sport  of  you  and  of  her 
again.  Hey  ho,  no  one  knows  what  I  have  in  my 
heart!  It  would  be  well  were  I  to  lay  him  in  the 
cold  ground  for  a  bed  with  the  help  of  my  gun !" 

Raman  stared  at  the  Cossack  and  asked: 

"Have  you  gone  out  of  your  head  this  hour,  Cos- 
sack?" 

I  did  not  hear  what  Opanas  began  whispering  to 
Raman  in  the  front  entry  in  answer  to  this ;  I  only 
heard  Raman  clap  him  on  the  back. 

"Okh,  Opanas,  Opanas !  How  wicked  and  cun- 
ning people  are  in  this  world!  I  knew  nothing  of 
this,  living  in  the  forest.  Eh,  hey,  Count,  Count, 
what  evil  you  have  brought  on  your  head !" 

"Come !"  Opanas  says  to  him.  "Go  now,  and  don't 
show  anything,  especially  before  Bogdan.  You're  a 
simple  man  and  that  hound  of  the  Count's  is  crafty. 
Be  sure  you  don't  drink  much  of  the  Count's  wine; 
and  if  he  sends  you  out  on  the  marsh  with  the  hunts- 
men and  himself  wants  to  stay  behind,  lead  the  hunts- 
men to  the  old  oak  tree,  put  them  on  a  round-about 
road,  and  tell  them  that  you  are  going  to  walk 
straight  through  the  forest.  Then  come  back  here 
as  quick  as  you  can." 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  73 

"Good,"  says  Raman.  "It's  hunting  I  shall  go, 
though  my  gun  won't  be  loaded  with  bird-shot  for 
little  birds,  but  with  a  good  stout  bullet  for  a  bear." 

Then  they  went  out.  The  Count  was  sitting  on  a 
carpet  on  the  ground.  He  ordered  a  flagon  of  wine 
and  a  goblet  to  be  brought  to  him,  filled  a  goblet  full 
and  passed  it  to  Raman.  Eh,  hey ;  the  Count's  flagon 
and  goblet  were  fair  to  see  and  his  wine  was  better 
still.  One  little  goblet,  and  your  heart  would  be  full 
of  happiness ;  another,  and  it  would  leap  in  your 
breast;  if  a  man  were  not  used  to  it  he  would  roll 
under  his  seat  after  the  third  unless  a  woman  were 
there  to  lay  him  on  top  of  it. 

Eh,  hey;  I  tell  you,  the  Count  was  clever.  He 
wanted  to  make  Raman  drunk  on  his  wine,  but  there 
was  no  wine  in  the  world  that  could  overpower  Ra- 
man. He  emptied  one  goblet  from  the  Count's  hands 
and  then  another,  and  still  another,  until  his  eyes 
glowed  like  a  wolf's  and  his  black  whiskers  began  to 
twitch.  The  Count  at  last  grew  angry. 

"How  sturdily  that  Devil's  spawn  can  lap  up  the 
wine  and  never  blink  an  eye!  Any  other  fellow 
would  have  been  blubbering  by  now,  but  look  at  him, 
lads ;  he  is  laughing  still !" 

The  wicked  Count  well  knew  that  if  a  man  cried 
from  wine  his  top-knot  would  soon  be  trailing  on  the 
table.  But  this  time  he  had  mistaken  his  man. 

"And  why  should  I  cry?"  asked  Raman  in  return. 
"That  would  even  be  rude.  The  gracious  Count 


74  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

comes  to  congratulate  me  on  my  marriage  and  I 
begin  to  howl  like  a  woman !  Thank  God  I  have  noth- 
ing to  cry  for  yet;  let  my  enemies  do  the  crying!" 

"That  means  you  are  contented?"  asks  the  Count. 

"Eh,  hey!    And  why  should  I  be  discontented?" 

"Do  you  remember  how  I  betrothed  you  with  the 
help  of  a  knout?" 

"How  should  I  not  remember?  I  was  a  foolish 
man  then  and  didn't  know  bitter  from  sweet.  The 
knout  was  bitter,  but  I  loved  it  better  than  a  woman. 
Thanks  to  you,  gracious  Count,  this  fool  has  learned 
to  eat  honey." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  says  the  Count.  "And  now 
I  want  you  to  do  me  a  good  turn.  Go  out  on  the 
marsh  with  my  huntsmen  and  shoot  as  many  birds  as 
you  can,  and  especially  do  I  want  you  to  get  me  a 
blackcock." 

"And  when  does  the  Count  send  us  out  on  the 
marsh?"  asks  Raman. 

"When  you  have  had  one  more  drink.  Opanas 
will  sing  us  a  song,  and  then  go  in  God's  name." 

Raman  fixes  his  eyes  on  the  Count  and  says : 

"That  will  not  be  easy.  It  is  late,  the  marsh  is 
far,  and,  besides,  the  forest  is  murmuring  in  the  wind ; 
there  will  be  a  storm  to-night.  How  can  one  kill 
a  shy  bird  on  an  evening  like  this  ?" 

But  the  Count  was  drunk,  and  he  was  always 
powerfully  bad-tempered  in  his  cups.  He  heard  his 
attendants  whispering  among  themselves  that  "surely 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  75 

Raman  was  right,  there  would  soon  be  a  storm,"  and 
he  was  very  angry.  He  slammed  down  his  goblet  and 
glared  about  him.  Every  man  held  his  tongue. 

Only  Opanas  was  not  afraid;  he  stepped  out  as 
the  Count  had  told  him  do  to  sing  his  song  with  his 
bandura.  He  tuned  it,  glanced  sideways  at  the 
Count,  and  said: 

"Come  to  your  senses,  gracious  Lord !  When  has 
it  ever  been  known  that  men  went  hunting  birds  at 
night,  in  a  dark  forest,  in  the  midst  of  a  storm?" 

That's  how  bold  he  was !  The  other  serfs  of  the 
Count  were  afraid,  of  course,  but  he  was  a  free  man 
of  Cossack  birth.  An  old  Cossack  player  of  the 
bandura  had  brought  him  as  a  youngster  from  the 
Ukraine.  There,  lad,  the  people  had  made  trouble  in 
the  town  of  Uman.  They  had  put  out  this  old  Cos- 
sack's eyes,  cut  off  his  ears,  and  sent  him  out  like 
that  into  the  world.  So  he  had  walked  and  walked, 
from  village  to  town,  and  wandered  into  our  coun- 
try with  the  little  lad  Opanas  as  his  guide.  The 
old  Count  took  him  into  his  house  because  he  loved 
beautiful  songs.  So  when  the  old  man  died,  Opanas 
grew  up  in  the  palace.  The  young  Count  grew  to 
like  him,  and  would  often  endure  speeches  from 
him  for  which  he  would  have  flayed  three  skins  off 
the  back  of  another  man. 

So  it  was  now.  He  was  angry  at  first,  and  the 
men  thought  he  was  going  to  hit  the  Cossack,  but 
he  soon  spoke  to  Opanas  and  said: 


76  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

"Oi,  Opanas,  Opanas  !  You're  a  clever  lad,  but  it's 
plain  you  don't  understand  that  no  man  should  put 
his  nose  in  the  crack  of  a  door  for  fear  some  one 
might  slam  it." 

That's  how  he  guessed  the  Cossack's  riddle !  And 
the  Cossack  saw  at  once  he  had  guessed  it.  And  he 
answered  the  Count  in  a  song.  Oi,  if  the  Count  had 
been  able  to  understand  a  Cossack  song,  his  Countess 
might  not  have  had  to  shed  tears  over  him  that  night ! 
"Thank  you,  Count,  for  your  wisdom,"  said  Opanas. 
"Now  in  return  I  am  going  to  sing  to  you.  Listen 
well." 

Then  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  at  the  sky ; 
he  saw  an  eagle  soaring  there  and  the  wind  driving 
the  dark  clouds  along.  He  listened  and  heard  the 
tall  pines  murmuring. 

And  once  more  he  struck  the  strings  of  his 
bandura. 

Eh,  lad,  you  never  chanced  to  hear  Opanas  play, 
and  now  you  will  never  hear  it!  The  bandura  is  a 
simple  trick,  but  oh,  how  well  a  man  who  knows  it  can 
make  it  talk !  When  Opanas  ran  his  hand  across 
the  strings  it  told  him  everything:  how  the  dark  pine 
forest  sings  in  a  storm;  how  the  wind  hums  through 
the  sedge  on  the  desert  steppe ;  how  the  dry  grass 
whispers  on  a  high  Cossack  grave. 

No,  lad,  you  won't  hear  such  playing  as  that  now- 
a-days ! 

All  kinds  of  people  come  here  now  that  have  been 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  77 

not  only  in  our  Polyesie  but  in  other  countries  as 
well:  all  over  the  Ukraine,  in  Chirigin  and  Poltava 
and  Kiev.  They  say  that  players  of  the  bandura 
are  out  of  fashion  now  and  that  you  never  hear  them 
at  fairs  and  in  the  bazaars.  I  still  have  an  old  ban- 
dura  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  hut.  Opanas  taught 
me  to  play  it,  but  no  one  has  learnt  to  play  it 
from  me.  When  I  die — and  that  will  be  soon — who 
knows,  perhaps  nobody  in  the  wide  world  will  ever 
hear  the  notes  of  a  bandura  again.  No,  indeed ! 

And  Opanas  began  singing  a  song  in  a  low  voice. 
Opanas'  voice  was  not  loud ;  it  was  brooding  and  sad, 
and  went  straight  to  the  heart.  And  the  song,  lad, 
was  made  up  for  the  Count  by  the  Cossack  himself. 
I  have  never  heard  it  again,  and  when,  later,  I  used 
to  tease  Opanas  to  sing  it,  he  always  refused. 

"The  man  for  whom  that  song  was  sung,"  he  would 
say,  "is  no  longer  in  this  world." 

The  Cossack  told  the  Count  all  the  truth  in  that 
song,  and  what  the  Count's  fate  would  be,  and  the 
Count  wept ;  the  tears  even  trickled  down  his  beard, 
and  yet  it  was  plain  that  not  one  word  did  he  under- 
stand. 

Okh,  I  can't  remember  the  song ;  I  can  only  remem- 
ber a  few  words.  The  Cossack  sang  about  Count 
Ivan: 


"Oi,  Ivan!     Alas,  oi,  Count! 
The  Count  is  clever  and  much  he  knows. 


78  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

He  knows  that  the  falcon  soars  in  the  sky,  and  falls  upon  the 

crow. 

Oi,  Ivan !    Alas,  oi,  Count ! 
But  the  Count  does  not  know 
How  it  is  in  this  world, 
That  the  crow  will  at  last  kill  the  falcon  at  its  nest." 


There,  lad!  I  seem  to  hear  that  song  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  to  see  those  men  again.  There  stands  the 
Cossack  with  his  bandura;  the  Count  is  sitting  on 
his  carpet ;  his  head  is  bowed,  and  he  is  weeping.  The 
Count's  men  are  gathered  about  him  and  are  nudg- 
ing one  another  with  their  elbows,  and  old  Bogdan 
is  shaking  his  head.  And  the  forest  is  murmuring, 
just  as  it  is  murmuring  now,  and  the  bandura  is 
chiming  softly,  dreamily,  while  the  Cossack  sings  of 
how  the  Countess  wept  over  the  grave  of  Count  Ivan  : 

"She  cries,  the  Countess  cries, 
While  over  the  grave  of  Count  Ivan  a  black  crow  flies." 

Okh,  the  Count  did  not  understand  that  song.  He 
wiped  his  eyes  and  said: 

"Come  now,  Raman !  Come,  lads,  mount  your 
horses !  And  you,  Opanas,  ride  with  them ;  I've  had 
enough  of  your  singing !  That  was  a  good  song,  only 
you  sang  of  things  that  never  happen  in  this  world." 

But  the  Cossack's  heart  was  softened  by  his  song 
and  his  eyes  were  dim. 

"Okh,  Count,  Count,"  says  Opanas.  "In  my  coun- 
try the  old  men  say  that  legends  and  songs  contain 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  79 

the  truth.  But  in  legends  the  truth  is  like  iron  that 
has  passed  through  the  world  from  hand  to  hand  for 
many  years  and  has  grown  rusty.  But  the  truth  in 
songs  is  like  gold  that  rust  will  never  corrode.  That's 
what  the  old  men  say !" 

But  the  Count  waved  his  hand. 

"It  may  be  so  in  your  country,  but  here  it  is  not 
so.  Go,  go,  Opanas ;  I  am  tired  of  listening  to  you." 

The  Cossack  stood  still  for  a  moment  and  then  fell 
at  the  Count's  feet. 

"Do  as  I  beseech  you,  Count !"  he  cried.  "Mount 
your  horse  and  ride  home  to  your  Countess !  My 
heart  foretells  disaster." 

At  that  the  Count  grew  angry  in  earnest.  He 
kicked  the  Cossack  aside  with  his  boot  as  if  he  had 
been  a  dog. 

"Get  out  of  my  sight!"  he  shouted.  "Now  I  see 
that  you're  not  a  Cossack  but  an  old  woman !  Leave 
me,  or  evil  will  befall  you!  What  are  you  waiting 
for,  hounds?  Am  I  no  longer  your  master?  Here, 
I'll  show  you  something  that  your  fathers  never  saw 
done  by  my  father!" 

Opanas  rose  like  a  dark  thunder-cloud  and  ex- 
changed glances  with  Raman.  Raman  was  standing 
off  at  one  side,  leaning  on  his  carbine  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

The  Cossack  struck  his  bandura  against  a  tree; 
the  bandura  flew  to  pieces  and  the  sound  of  its  groan 
echoed  through  the  forest. 


80  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

"Very  well,  then!"  he  cried.  "Let  the  devils  in 
the  next  world  teach  him  who  will  not  hear  wise  coun- 
sel in  this!  I  see,  Count,  you  have  no  need  of  a 
faithful  servant !" 

Before  the  Count  could  answer  Opanas  had  jumped 
into  his  saddle  and  ridden  away.  The  other  attend- 
ants mounted  their  horses  too.  Raman  shouldered 
his  carbine  and  walked  away;  as  he  passed  the  hut 
he  called  out  to  Aksana: 

"Put  the  boy  to  sleep,  Aksana;  it  is  time.  And 
prepare  a  bed  for  the  Count !" 

They  had  soon  all  ridden  away  into  the  wood  by 
that  road  there,  and  the  Count  went  into  the  hut ; 
only  the  Count's  horse  was  left  standing  outside,  tied 
to  a  tree.  Night  was  already  falling;  a  murmur  was 
going  about  the  forest,  and  a  few  drops  of  rain  were 
falling,  just  as  they  are  now.  Aksana  laid  me  to 
sleep  in  the  hayloft  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
over  me  for  the  night.  I  could  hear  my  Aksana 
crying. 

Okh,  what  could  a  little  lad  like  me  understand  of 
all  that  was  going  on?  I  wrapped  myself  in  the 
hay  and  lay  listening  to  the  storm  singing  its  song 
in  the  forest  until  I  began  to  fall  asleep. 

Eh,  hey !  Suddenly  I  heard  footsteps  outside  the 
hut.  They  reached  the  tree,  and  some  one  untied  the 
Count's  horse.  The  horse  snorted  and  stamped  and 
galloped  away  into  the  forest.  The  sound  of  its 
hoofs  soon  died  away  in  the  distance.  But  before 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  81 

long  I  heard  galloping  again;  some  one  was  coming 
down  the  road.  This  man  rode  up  post  haste, 
jumped  down  from  his  saddle,  and  rushed  to  the 
window  of  the  hut. 

"Count !  Count !"  cried  the  voice  of  old  Bogdan. 
"Oi,  Count !  Open  the  door  quickly !  That  devil  of 
a  Cossack  means  harm !  He  has  let  your  horse  loose 
in  the  forest !" 

Before  the  old  man  had  time  to  finish  his  sentence 
he  was  seized  from  behind.  I  was  frightened,  for  I 
heard  something  fall. 

The  Count  tore  open  the  door  and  jumped  out 
with  his  carbine  in  his  hand,  but  Raman  caught  him 
in  the  front  entry  right  by  the  top-knot  as  he  had 
done  the  other,  and  flung  him  to  the  ground  as  well. 

The  Count  saw  that  things  were  going  badly  for 
him  and  he  cried : 

"Oi,  let  me  go,  Raman,  lad!  Have  you  forgotten 
the  good  turn  I  did  you?" 

Raman  answered: 

"I  remember,  wicked  Count,  the  good  turn  you  dio! 
me  and  my  wife.  And  now  I  shall  pay  you  for  it." 

But  the  Count  cried  again : 

"Help  me,  help  me,  Opanas,  my  faithful  servant! 
I  have  loved  you  as  my  own  son !" 

But  Opanas  answered: 

"You  drove  your  faithful  servant  away  like  a  dog. 
You  have  loved  me  as  a  stick  loves  the  back  which  it 
beats,  and  now  you  love  me  as  the  back  loves  the 


82  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

stick  which  beats  it !  I  begged  and  implored  you  to 
listen  to  me.  You  wouldn't !" 

Then  the  Count  began  calling  to  Aksana  for  help. 

"Intercede  for  me,  Aksana;  you  have  a  kind 
heart!" 

Aksana  came  running  out,  wringing  her  hands. 

"I  begged  you  on  my  knees,  Count,  at  your  feet 
I  once  begged  you,  to  spare  my  maidenhood,  and  to- 
night I  besought  you  not  to  defile  me,  a  married 
woman.  You  would  not  spare  me,  and  now  you  are 
asking  mercy  for  yourself.  Okh,  do  not  ask  it  from 
me;  what  can  I  do?" 

"Let  me  go !"  cried  the  Count  once  more.  "You 
will  all  go  to  Siberia  because  of  me !" 

"Do  not  grieve  for  us,  Count,"  answered  Opanas. 
"Raman  will  be  out  on  the  marsh  before  your  men 
get  back,  and,  as  for  me,  I  am  alone  in  the  world, 
thanks  to  your  kindness.  I  shan't  worry  about  my- 
self. I  shall  shoulder  my  carbine  and  be  off  into  the 
forest.  I  shall  gather  together  a  band  of  lusty  lads 
and  we  shall  roam  through  the  country,  coining  forth 
out  of  the  forest  onto  the  highroads  at  night.  When 
we  reach  a  village  we  shall  make  straight  for  the 
Count's  domain.  Come  on,  Raman,  lad,  raise  up  the 
Count  and  let  us  carry  his  honour  out  into  the  rain." 

Then  the  Count  began  to  struggle  and  scream,  but 
Rarnan  only  growled  under  his  breath,  and  Opanas 
laughed.  So  they  went  out. 

But  I  took  fright.    I  rushed  into  the  hut  and  ran 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  83 

straight  to  Aksana.  My  Aksana  was  sitting  on  a 
bench,  as  white  as  that  plaster  wall. 

And  the  storm  was  raging  in  earnest  through  the 
forest  by  now;  the  pines  were  shouting  with  many 
voices,  and  the  wind  was  howling,  while  from  time 
to  time  a  clap  of  thunder  would  rend  the  air.  Ak- 
sana and  I  sat  on  a  bench,  and  all  at  once  I  heard 
someone  groan  in  the  forest.  Okh,  he  groaned  so 
pitifully  that  to-day  when  I  remember  it  my  heart 
grows  heavy,  and  yet  it  happened  many  years  ago. 

"Aksana,"  I  asked,  "dear  Aksana,  who  is  that 
groaning  in  the  forest?" 

But  she  took  me  in  her  arms  and  rocked  me  and 
said : 

"Go  to  sleep,  little  lad,  it  is  nothing!  It  is  only 
— the  forest  murmuring." 

And  the  forest  was  murmuring  indeed!  Oh,  how 
loudly  it  was  talking  that  night ! 

We  sat  there  together  a  little  while  longer  and  then 
I  heard  what  I  thought  was  a  shot  in  the  forest. 

"Aksana,"  I  asked,  "dear  Aksana,  who  is  that 
shooting  with  a  gun?" 

But  she  only  rocked  me  and  answered: 

"Be  quiet,  be  quiet,  little  lad;  that  is  God's  light- 
ning striking  in  the  forest." 

But  she  herself  was  crying,  and  holding  me  close 
to  her  breast.  She  rocked  me  to  sleep,  repeating 
softly : 


84  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

"The  forest  is  murmuring;  the  forest  is  murmur- 
ing, little  lad." 

So  I  lay  in  her  arms  and  went  to  sleep. 

And  when  morning  came,  lad,  I  jumped  up,  and 
there  was  the  sun  shining  and  Aksana  sitting  all 
dressed  in  the  hut.  I  remembered  what  had  hap- 
pened the  night  before  and  thought:  "It  was  all  a 
dream !" 

But  it  was  not  a  dream;  oi,  no,  not  a  dream;  it 
was  true.  I  ran  out  of  the  hut  into  the  forest.  The 
birds  were  singing  and  the  dew  was  shining  on  the 
grass.  I  ran  into  the  thicket  and  there  I  saw  the 
Count  and  a  huntsman  lying  side  by  side.  The  Count 
was  peaceful  and  pale,  but  the  huntsman  was  grey, 
like  a  dove,  and  stern  as  if  he  had  been  alive.  On  the 
breasts  of  the  Count  and  of  the  huntsman  were 
bloody  stains. 

"Well,  and  what  became  of  the  others?"  I  asked, 
seeing  that  the  old  man  had  bowed  his  head  and  was 
silent. 

"Eh,  hey!  That  is  all  there  is  to  the  story,  as 
Opanas  the  Cossack  used  to  say.  He  lived  long  in 
the  forest,  roaming  about  the  highroads  and  over  the 
domains  of  the  nobles  with  his  lads.  His  fate  had 
been  written  at  his  birth ;  his  fathers  had  been  rob- 
bers and  a  robber  he  had  to  be.  He  came  here  to 
this  hut  more  than  once,  lad,  most  often  when  Raman 
was  away.  He  would  come  and  sit  for  a  while  and 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  85 

sing  a  song  and  play  upon  his  bandura.  But  when 
he  came  with  his  comrades,  Aksana  and  Raman  would 
always  be  here  together  to  greet  him.  Okh,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  lad,  guilty  deeds  have  been  done  here. 
Maksim  and  Zakhar  will  soon  come  back  out  of  the 
forest — look  well  at  them  both.  I  say  nothing  to 
them  about  it,  but  any  one  who  knew  Raman  and 
Opanas  could  tell  at  a  glance  which  one  of  the  boys 
looks  like  which,  although  they  are  not  the  sons  but 
the  grandsons  of  those  men.  That  is  what  has  been 
done  here  in  this  forest,  lad,  in  my  memory. 

And    the     forest   is   murmuring  loudly    to-night. 
There  will  be  rain." 


Ill 


The  old  man  spoke  the  last  words  as  if  he  were 
tired.  His  excitement  had  died  out,  his  tongue  was 
tripping,  his  head  was  shaking,  and  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

Night  had  fallen ;  the  forest  was  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness. The  wind  was  thundering  against  the  hut  like 
a  rising  tide.  The  black  tree-tops  were  tossing  like 
the  crests  of  waves  in  a  fierce  gale. 

Soon  a  merry  barking  announced  the  approach  of 
the  dogs  and  their  masters.  Both  foresters  ap- 
peared striding  swiftly  toward  the  hut,  and  behind 
them  came  the  panting  Motria,  driving  in  her  lost 
cow.  Our  company  was  now  complete. 


86  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were  sitting  in  the  hut. 
A  cheerful  fire  was  crackling  in  the  stove;  Motria 
was  preparing  our  supper. 

Although  I  had  seen  Zakhar  and  Maksim  many 
times  before,  I  now  looked  at  them  with  especial 
interest.  Zakhar's  face  was  dark.  His  eyebrows 
grew  out  from  under  a  straight,  low  forehead,  and 
his  eyes  were  sombre,  although  a  natural  kindness 
and  an  inherent  strength  could  also  be  read  in  his 
features.  Maksim's  glance  was  frank  and  his  grey 
eyes  were  caressing;  he  ruffled  his  fair  curls  now 
and  then,  and  his  laugh  was  peculiarly  ringing  and 
merry. 

"And  what  has  the  old  man  been  telling  you?" 
asked  Maksim.  "That  old  legend  about  our  grand- 
father?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"There  now,  he  always  does  that !  When  the  for- 
est begins  to  murmur  loudly  he  always  remembers 
the  past.  Now  he  won't  be  able  to  sleep  all  night." 

"He  is  like  a  little  child,"  added  Motria,  pouring 
out  the  old  man's  tea. 

The  old  man  seemed  not  to  know  that  they  were 
talking  of  him.  He  had  entirely  collapsed,  and  was 
smiling  vacantly  from  time  to  time  and  nodding  his 
head.  Only  when  the  storm  that  was  blustering 
through  the  forest  shook  the  hut  did  he  seem  to  grow 
anxious ;  then  he  would  lend  an  ear  to  the  noise, 
harkening  to  it  with  a  frightened  look  on  his  face. 


THE  MURMURING  FOREST  87 

Soon  all  grew  quiet  in  the  hut.  A  tallow-dip  flick- 
ered dimly  and  a  cricket  was  chirping  its  monot- 
onous song.  In  the  forest  a  thousand  mighty  but 
muffled  voices  were  talking  together  and  calling 
fiercely  to  one  another  through  the  night.  Terrible 
powers  seemed  to  be  holding  a  noisy  conclave  in  the 
outer  darkness.  From  time  to  time  the  tumultuous 
thunder  would  rise  and  swell  and  the  door  of  the 
hut  would  quiver  as  if  some  one  were  leaning  against 
it  from  the  outside,  hissing  with  rage,  while  the  noc- 
turnal tempest  piped  a  piteous,  heart-breaking  note 
in  the  chimney.  At  moments  the  fury  of  the  storm 
would  abate  and  an  ominous  silence  would  fall  and 
oppress  the  heart,  until  once  more  the  thunder  would 
rise,  as  if  the  ancient  pines  had  plotted  to  suddenly 
tear  themselves  from  their  roots  and  fly  away  into 
an  unknown  land  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 

I  lost  myself  for  a  few  moments  in  a  confused 
slumber,  but  it  could  not  have  been  for  long.  The 
gale  was  howling  through  the  forest  in  many  tones 
and  keys.  The  tallow-dip  flared  and  lit  up  the  hut. 
The  old  man  was  sitting  on  his  bench  feeling  about 
him  with  his  arms  as  if  he  expected  to  find  some- 
body near  him.  A  look  of  fear  and  almost  of  child- 
ish helplessness  distorted  the  face  of  the  poor  old 
man. 

"Aksana !"  I  heard  his  piteous  whisper.  "Dear 
Aksana,  who  is  that  groaning  in  the  forest?" 


88  THE  MURMURING  FOREST 

His  hands  fluttered  anxiously  and  he  seemed  to  be 
listening  for  a  reply. 

"Eh,  hey,"  he  spoke  again.  "No  one  is  groaning ; 
it  is  the  noise  of  the  storm  in  the  forest.  That  is 
all ;  it  is  the  forest  murmuring,  murmuring — 

A  few  minutes  passed.  Bluish  flashes  of  lightning 
stared  every  second  or  two  into  the  little  window, 
and  the  tall,  fantastic  forms  of  the  pines  kept  spring- 
ing out  of  the  darkness  and  vanishing  again  into  the 
angry  heart  of  the  storm.  Suddenly  a  brilliant  light 
dimmed  the  pale  flame  of  the  tallow-dip  and  a  sharp, 
near-by  peal  of  thunder  crashed  over  the  forest. 

The  old  man  again  moved  anxiously  on  his  bench. 

"Aksana,  dear  Aksana,  who  is  that  shooting  with 
a  gun?" 

"Go  to  sleep,  grandfather,  go  to  sleep,"  I  heard 
Motria's  quiet  voice  answer  from  her  place  on  the 
stove.  "It's  always  like  this.  He  always  calls  Ak- 
sana if  there's  a  storm  at  night.  He  forgets  that 
Aksana  has  long  been  dead.  Okh — ho !" 

Motria  yawned,  whispered  a  prayer,  and  silence 
fell  once  more  in  the  hut,  broken  only  by  the  noise 
of  the  forest  and  the  old  man's  anxious  whispering: 

"The  forest  is  murmuring,  the  forest  is  murmuring 
— dear  Aksana " 

Soon  a  heavy  rain  began  to  fall,  drowning  with 
its  descending  torrents  the  groans  of  the  pines. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY 


IN  BAD  COMPANY 


THE  RUINS 

MY  mother  died  when  I  was  six  years  old.  After  her 
death  my  father  surrendered  himself  entirely  to  his 
own  grief,  and  seemed  to  forget  my  existence.  He 
caressed  my  little  sister  at  times,  and  saw  to  her  wel- 
fare in  his  own  way,  because  he  could  trace  her  moth- 
er's features  in  her  face,  but  I  grew  up  like  a  wild 
sapling  of  the  fields ;  no  one  gave  me  any  especial 
care,  though,  on  the  other  hand,  no  one  restricted  my 
freedom. 

The  little  village  where  we  lived  was  called  Kniazh 
Gorodok  or  Princetown.  It  belonged  to  a  proud  but 
impoverished  race  of  Polish  noblemen,  and  presented 
all  the  typical  features  of  any  small  town  in  South- 
western Russia,  where  the  pitiful  remnants  of  stately 
Polish  grandeur  drag  out  their  weary  days  in  a 
gently  flowing  current  of  incessant  toil  mingled  with 
the  trivial  bustle  of  Jewish  "geschaft"  or  business. 

If  you  approached  the  village  from  the  east,  the 
first  thing  that  caught  your  eye  was  the  prison — the 
great  architectural  ornament  of  the  town.  The 
village  itself  lay  spread  below  you  on  the  shores  of 

91 


92  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

its  slumberous  ponds,  and  you  descended  to  it  by  a 
steep  highway  that  was  barred  at  last  by  the  tradi- 
tional city  gates.  The  drowsy  veteran  who  was 
toasting  his  red  face  in  the  sun,  the  very  embodiment 
of  tranquil  sleep,  would  lazily  raise  the  barrier,  and 
behold!  you  were  in  the  town,  although  at  first  you 
might  not  perceive  it.  Grey  fences  and  vacant  lots 
littered  with  piles  of  rubbish  were  interspersed  here 
and  there  among  the  crumbling  and  staring-eyed  lit- 
tle "khatkas"  or  huts.  Farther  on,  the  wide  market 
place  appeared,  bright  with  the  roofs  of  the  Jewish 
"travellers'  rests,"  while  the  Government  buildings 
gave  an  air  of  melancholy  to  the  scene,  with  their 
white  walls  and  their  barrack -like  regularity  of  out- 
line. The  wooden  bridge  thrown  across  the  little 
river  would  groan  and  tremble  under  the  wheels  of 
your  carriage,  swaying  like  a  decrepit  old  man.  A 
Jewish  street  led  away  from  the  bridge,  lined  with 
warehouses,  shops,  miserable  bazaars,  and  bakers' 
booths,  while  the  Hebrew  money-changers  sat  at  their 
tables  on  the  sidewalks  under  their  parasols.  Every- 
where were  dirt  and  swarms  of  children  tumbling  in 
the  dust  of  the  street.  Another  minute,  however,  and 
you  were  already  beyond  the  village.  Softly  the 
birches  would  be  whispering  over  the  graves  in  the 
cemetery,  while  the  breeze  stirred  the  wheat  fields, 
and  sang  in  mournful  cadences  among  the  roadside 
telegraph  wires. 

The  little  river,  spanned  by  the  above  mentioned 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  93 

bridge,  flowed  from  one  pond  into  another,  and  thus 
enclosed  the  town  at  the  north  and  south  by  swamps 
and  broad  expanses  of  water.  The  ponds  had  grown 
shallower  from  year  to  year,  until  at  last  they  had 
become  choked  by  vegetation,  and  tall,  thickly-grow- 
ing reeds  now  rippled  like  the  sea  upon  the  wide 
marshes.  In  the  centre  of  one  of  these  ponds  was 
an  island,  and  on  the  island  stood  an  old,  half-ruined 
castle. 

I  remember  with  what  terror  I  used  always  to  con- 
template this  mighty,  decaying  pile.  Stories  and  le- 
gends, each  one  more  frightful  than  the  last,  were 
current  about  it.  The  island,  it  was  said,  was  arti- 
ficial, piled  up  by  the  hands  of  captive  Turks.  "The 
castle  is  built  upon  human  bones ;"  so  ran  the  saying 
among  the  old  people  of  the  village,  and  my  childish 
imagination  pictured  with  horror  thousands  of  Turk- 
ish skeletons  supporting  with  bony  hands  the  island, 
the  castle,  and  the  tall,  pyramidal  poplar  trees.  Of 
course  this  only  made  the  castle  appear  more  ter- 
rible than  ever,  and  even  on  bright  days,  if,  embold- 
ened by  the  sunlight  and  the  loud  voices  of  the  birds, 
we  approached  it  too  closely,  it  would  ofttimes  throw 
us  into  spasms  of  panic  fear,  so  horribly  did  the  dark 
cavities  of  its  windows  glower  down  upon  us.  A 
mysterious  rustling  would  seem  to  stray  through  its 
deserted  halls,  and  pebbles  and  bits  o?  plaster  would 
come  rattling  down,  awakening  the  muffled  echoes. 
At  such  times  we  would  scamper  away  without  even 


94  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

a  glance  behind  us,  seeming  to  hear,  long  after, 
sounds  of  clattering  and  banging  and  laughter  re- 
sounding in  our  ears. 

But,  on  autumn  nights,  when  the  giant  poplars 
swayed  and  chanted  under  the  wind  that  came  flying 
to  them  across  the  ponds,  this  horror  would  spread 
from  the  island  to  the  mainland  and  would  reign  over 
the  whole  village.  "Oi  vei  mir !"  the  Jews  would  whis- 
per with  terror,  while  God-fearing  old  citizens 
crossed  themselves,  and  even  our  nearest  neighbour, 
the  blacksmith,  the  very  incarnation  of  diabolical 
strength,  would  come  out  into  his  little  yard  and, 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  would  mutter  under 
his  breath  a  prayer  for  the  peace  of  departed  souls. 

Old,  grey-bearded  Yanush,  who,  for  lack  of  any 
other  abode,  had  taken  refuge  in  a  cellar  of  the 
castle,  had  often  told  us  that  on  such  nights  as  these 
he  could  clearly  hear  cries  rising  from  under  the 
ground.  It  was  the  Turks  stirring  under  the  island, 
knocking  their  bones  together,  and  loudly  charging 
their  Polish  masters  with  cruelty.  Then  in  the  old 
castle  halls  and  on  the  island  would  resound  the 
clanking  of  arms,  and  the  lords  would  call  their  liege- 
men together  with  loud  shouts.  Yanush  could  hear 
quite  plainly,  through  the  moaning  and  howling  of 
the  storm,  the  stamping  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  clashing 
of  swords,  and  the  words  of  command.  He  even 
heard,  once,  the  great-grandfather  of  the  present 
Count,  immortalised  by  the  memory  of  his  ruthless 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  95 

deeds,  come  trampling  out  on  his  blooded  steed,  and, 
riding  to  the  centre  of  the  island,  cry  out  with  a 
dreadful  oath:  "Silence  there,  you  yelping  heathen 
dogs!" 

The  descendants  of  this  Count  had  long  since  aban- 
doned the  home  of  their  ancestors.  The  greater  part 
of  the  ducats  and  treasure  with  which  their  coffers 
had  once  been  filled  to  overflowing  had  crossed  over 
the  bridge  into  the  hands  of  the  Jews,  and  the  last 
representatives  of  the  glorious  line  had  built  them- 
selves a  commonplace  white  house  on  a  hill  a  little 
farther  from  the  town.  Here  their  tedious  but  vain- 
glorious lives  were  spent  in  contemptuous  and  digni- 
fied isolation. 

Only  at  rare  intervals  did  the  old  Count,  himself 
a  ruin  as  gloomy  as  the  castle  and  the  island,  ap- 
pear in  the  little  town,  mounted  on  an  old  nag  of 
English  breed.  At  his  side  through  the  streets  rode 
his  daughter,  majestic  and  thin,  in  a  black  riding- 
habit,  while  their  head  groom  followed  respectfully 
behind.  The  stately  Countess  was  fated  to  remain 
forever  unwed.  Any  possible  suitors  who  were  her 
equals  in  birth  had  faint-heartedly  scattered  across 
the  world  in  search  of  the  rich  daughters  of  mer- 
chants in  foreign  lands,  and  had  either  deserted  their 
ancestral  castles  or  had  turned  them  over  to  be  pulled 
down  by  the  Jews.  As  for  the  little  town  which  lay 
spread  out  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  not  a  youth  could 
be  found  there  who  would  dare  to  raise  his  eyes  to 


96  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

the  beautiful  Countess.  We  little  boys,  on  catching 
sight  of  these  three  riders,  would  pick  ourselves  up 
out  of  the  soft  dust  of  the  street,  and,  scattering 
timidly  like  a  flock  of  birds  into  various  houses,  would 
follow  the  gloomy  lords  of  the  terrible  castle  with 
eyes  full  of  curiosity  and  fear. 

On  a  hill  west  of  the  town,  among  decaying  crosses 
and  sunken  graves,  there  stood  a  long-deserted  dis- 
senting chapel,  the  offspring  of  a  city  in  the  valley 
proper  below.  Hither,  in  days  of  yore,  the  chapel 
bell  had  summoned  the  townsfolk  in  their  clean  if 
plain  surtouts,  with  staves  in  their  hands  in  place  of 
the  swords  which  rattled  at  the  sides  of  the  small 
farmers,  also  called  hither  from  the  neighbouring 
villages  and  farms  by  the  clear  notes  of  the  chapel 
bell. 

From  here  could  be  seen  the  island,  with  its  great, 
sombre  poplars,  but  the  castle  kept  itself  angrily  and 
contemptuously  hidden  from  the  chapel  behind  their 
dense  greenery.  Only  when  the  southwest  wind  rose 
from  the  reed-beds  and  descended  upon  the  island 
did  the  sighing  poplars  sway  aside  and  the  castle 
windows  gleam  between  them,  allowing  the  castle 
to  cast  dark  glances  at  the  little  chapel.  Both  were 
corpses  now.  The  castle's  eyes  were  dim  and  no 
longer  reflected  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun ;  the 
chapel's  roof  had  fallen  in,  and,  in  place  of  its 
sonorous,  high-toned  copper  bell,  the  screech  owls 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  97 

now  raised  their  evil,  midnight  voices  among  its 
rafters. 

But  the  old,  historic  gulf  that  had,  in  former 
times,  divided  the  proud,  lordly  castle  from  the  bour- 
geois dissenting  chapel,  continued  even  after  their 
death,  kept  open  by  the  worms  that  had  burrowed 
into  the  crumbling  corpses  and  had  occupied  the 
safest  corners  of  their  vaults  and  cellars.  The  coffin- 
worms  infesting  these  lifeless  buildings  were  men. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  the  ancient  castle  had 
served  as  a  free  refuge  without  restrictions  of  any 
kind  for  every  poor  wretch  that  needed  it.  Every 
one  who  could  find  no  shelter  in  the  town,  every  poor 
creature  that  had  fallen  on  evil  days  and  had  lost,  for 
one  reason  or  another,  the  power  to  pay  even  the  few 
copecks  needed  for  a  roof  and  fire  by  night  and  in 
stormy  weather — all  these  poor  wretches  found  their 
way  to  the  island,  and  there  hid  their  vanquished 
heads  among  the  gloomy,  threatening,  tottering 
ruins,  paying  for  the  hospitality  they  found  there 
only  by  the  danger  they  ran  of  being  buried  alive 
under  a  pile  of  debris.  "He  lives  in  the  castle"  had 
come  to  be  the  expression  used  to  denote  the  last 
stages  of  beggardom  and  civilian  degradation.  The 
old  castle  gladly  received  and  sheltered  every  variety 
of  wandering  destitution:  poor  writers  temporarily 
ruined,  forlorn  old  women,  and  homeless  vagabonds. 
These  persons  tore  down  the  interior  of  the  rotting 
building,  broke  up  its  floors  and  ceilings,  lit  their 


98  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

stoves,  cooked  heaven  knows  what,  and,  in  a  word, 
fulfilled  in  some  way  or  another  their  functions  of 
life. 

Nevertheless,  there  came  a  day  when  dissension 
broke  out  among  the  company  roosting  under  the 
roof  of  those  hoary  ruins.  Then  it  was  that  old 
Yanush,  who  had  once  been  one  of  the  Count's  smaller 
"officials,"  prepared  a  sort  of  gubernatorial  mani- 
festo for  himself  and  seized  the  reins  of  power.  He 
set  himself  to  reorganise  things,  and  for  several  days 
such  a  hubbub  ensued  and  such  cries  arose  on  the 
island  that  it  seemed  at  times  as  if  the  Turks  had 
torn  themselves  from  their  prison  underground  in 
order  to  avenge  themselves  upon  their  Polish  tyrants. 
This  Yanush  sorted  out  the  inhabitants  of  the  ruins, 
dividing  the  sheep  from  the  goats.  The  sheep,  who 
remained  in  the  castle  as  before,  helped  him  to  expel 
the  unhappy  goats,  who  were  stubborn  and  put  up  a 
desperate  but  ineffectual  resistance.  When,  at  last, 
with  the  silent  but  no  less  effective  cooperation  of 
the  policeman,  order  was  once  more  restored  on 
the  island  it  appeared  that  the  change  effected  had 
.been  distinctly  aristocratic  in  character.  Yanush 
v  had  allowed  only  "good  Christians,"  that  is,  Roman 
Catholics,  to  remain  in  the  castle,  and,  besides  this, 
most  of  them  were  either  former  servants  or  descend- 
ants of  servants  of  the  Count's  family.  They  were 
all  either  old  men  in  long,  tattered  cloaks  with  huge 
red  noses,  or  hideous,  scolding  hags  who  still  clung, 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  99 

in  the  last  stages  of  destitution,  to  their  caps  and 
mantles.  They  formed  a  homogeneous,  closely 
united,  aristocratic  circle  that  had  established,  as  it 
were,  a  monopoly  in  the  trade  of  beggary.  On  week- 
days these  old  dames  and  gaffers  would  go  with  pray- 
ers on  their  lips  from  house  to  house  of  the  more 
prosperous  townspeople,  carrying  gossip,  complain- 
ing of  their  hard  lot,  and  pouring  forth  tears  and 
supplications ;  but  on  Sundays  they  would  appear  as 
the  most  honoured  members  of  those  long  lines  that, 
in  Western  Russia,  extend  from  the  doors  of  Roman 
Catholic  churches.  There  they  would  proudly  accept 
offerings  in  the  name  of  the  "Lord  Jesus"  and  the 
"Lady  Mother  of  God." 

Attracted  by  the  uproar  and  shouts  that  came  to 
us  from  the  island  during  the  revolution,  I  betook 
myself  thither  with  a  few  of  my  companions,  and, 
hiding  behind  the  thick  trunks  of  the  poplars,  we 
watched  Yanush  at  the  head  of  an  army  of  red-nosed 
dotards  and  unsightly  shrews  drive  out  the  last  in- 
habitants of  the  castle  that  were  liable  to  expulsion. 
Evening  fell.  Drops  of  rain  were  already  falling 
from  a  cloud  that  was  hanging  over  the  high  sum- 
mits of  the  poplars.  A  few  unhappy  wretches,  wrap- 
ping their  impossibly  tattered  rags  about  them,  still 
lingered  about  the  island,  piteous,  confused,  and 
scared,  and,  like  toads  that  have  been  poked  out  of 
their  holes  by  boys,  tried  to  crawl  back  unnoticed 
into  some  cranny  of  the  castle  wall.  But  Yanush  and 


100  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

the  beldames  drove  them  away  with  curses  and  cries, 
threatening  them  with  sticks  and  pitchforks,  while 
the  silent  policeman  stood  by,  also  grasping  a  stout 
oaken  cudgel,  and  preserving  an  armed  neutrality, 
although  he  plainly  favoured  the  conquering  party. 
So  this  unhappy  riffraff  disappeared  grumbling  over 
the  bridge,  leaving  the  island  forever,  until  one  by 
one  they  were^swallowed  up  in  the  rainy  darkness 
of  the  rapidly  falling  night. 

After  that  memorable  evening  both  Yanush.  and 
the  old  castle,  which  had  both,  until  then,  impressed 
me  with  their  vague  grandeur,  lost  all  their  attrac- 
tion in  my  eyes.  Before  that  night  I  had  liked  to 
cross  over  to  the  island  and  to  contemplate  the  grey 
castle  walls  and  mossy  roof,  even  from  afar.  When 
the  motley  figures  of  its  inmates  crawled  out  into  the 
brightness  of  morning,  yawning,  coughing,  and  cross- 
ing themselves  in  the  sunlight,  I  had  looked  upon 
them  with  a  sort  of  reverence,  as  upon  creatures 
clothed  in  the  same  mystery  that  surrounded  the 
whole  castle.  "They  sleep  there  at  night,"  thought 
I;  "they  hear  everything  that  happens  when  the 
moon  looks  in  at  the  broken  windows  and  the  wind 
howls  through  the  great  halls."  I  had  loved  to  listen 
to  Yanush,  when,  with  all  the  loquacity  of  seventy 
years,  he  had  taken  his  seat  beneath  a  poplar  tree 
and  told  me  tales  of  the  glorious  past  of  the  dying 
building.  Images  of  this  past  would  rise  before  my 
childish  imagination,  and  there  would  be  wafted 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  101 

into  my  heart  a  solemn  melancholy  and  a  vague 
sympathy  for  the  life  lived  here  of  old  inside  these 
dismal  walls.  Romantic  shades  of  an  antiquity  un- 
known to  me  would  flit  across  my  young  soul  as  the 
light  shadows  of  clouds  flit  across  a  bright  field  on 
a  windy  day. 

But  after  that  evening  the  castle  and  its  bard 
appeared  to  me  in  a  new  light.  Meeting  me  the  follow- 
ing day  near  the  island,  Yanush  called  me  to  him  and 
assured  me  with  satisfaction  that  "the  son  of  such 
honoured  parents  as  mine"  could  now  boldly  visit  the 
island,  as  he  would  find  an  absolutely  orderly  popu- 
lation upon  it.  He  even  led  me  by  the  hand  up  to 
the  very  castle,  but  I  snatched  my  hand  out  of  his 
almost  in  tears,  and  ran  away  as  fast  as  my  legs  could 
carry  me;  the  castle  had  become  odious  to  me.  The 
windows  of  the  upper  story  had  been  boarded  up, 
while  the  lower  floor  was  ruled  over  by  the  "mantles 
and  caps."  The  old  women  crawled  out,  looking  so 
unattractive,  fawning  upon  me  so  mawkishly,  and  at 
the  same  time  scolding  one  another  so  loudly  that  I 
honestly  wondered  how  the  old  Count  who  was  wont 
to  discipline  his  Turks  on  stormy  nights  could  stand 
having  these  old  crones  so  near  him.  But  chiefly  I 
could  not  forget  the  cold  ruthlessness  with  which  the 
triumphant  inhabitants  of  the  castle  had  driven  away 
their  unfortunate  fellow-inmates,  and  my  heart  con- 
tracted at  the  remembrance  of  the  poor  creatures  left 
without  a  roof  over  their  heads. 


102  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

However  this  may  be,  the  old  castle  taught  me 
for  the  first  time  the  great  fact  that,  from  the  sub- 
lime to  the  ridiculous  is  but  a  step.  That  which 
was  sublime  in  the  castle  was  all  overgrown  with  con- 
volvulus and  ivy,  and  that  which  was  ridiculous  was 
revolting  to  me,  and  wounded  my  childish  susceptibil- 
ity too  keenly  for  me  to  feel  the  irony  of  the  con- 
trast; this  was  still  inaccessible  to  me. 


II 

QUEER  CHARACTERS 

The  nights  following  the  revolution  on  the  island 
were  passed  by  the  town  in  great  anxiety.  Dogs 
barked,  house  doors  creaked,  and  the  citizens  kept 
emerging  into  the  streets,  knocking  on  the  fences  with 
sticks,  and  letting  every  one  know  how  valiant  they 
were.  The  town  knew  that  a  band  of  shivering  and 
hungry  folk  was  roaming  through  the  streets,  cold 
and  wet,  in  the  raw  darkness  of  the  rainy  night,  and 
realising  full  well  that  only  harsh  feelings  could  exist 
in  the  hearts  of  these  people  toward  it,  the  town 
put  itself  on  guard  and  answered  these  sentiments 
with  threats.  And,  as  if  on  purpose,  the  nights  now 
fell  upon  the  earth  in  the  midst  of  torrents  of  cold 
rain,  and  passed  away  leaving  low-flying  clouds  hang- 
ing close  above  the  ground.  And  the  wind  bellowed 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  103 

in  the  heart  of  the  evil  weather,  shaking  the  tree- 
tops,  thundering  against  the  walls,  and  chanting  to 
me  in  my  bed  of  the  dozens  of  human  creatures  de- 
prived of  warmth,  with  no  roof  over  their  heads. 

But  at  last  spring  triumphed  over  winter's  rage; 
the  sun  dried  the  wet  earth,  and  in  the  meantime  the 
homeless  wanderers  had  slipped  away,  whither,  heaven 
knows.  The  nightly  barking  of  the  dogs  diminished, 
the  townsfolk  stopped  knocking  on  the  fences,  and 
life  assumed  once  more  its  monotonous  and  sleepy 
aspect.  The  hot  sun  rose  in  the  sky,  scorched  the 
dusty  streets,  and  drove  the  lively  sons  of  Israel  into 
the  shelter  of  their  little  booths ;  the  "commission- 
aires" lounged  lazily  in  the  sun,  sharply  eyeing  the 
passers-by  and  the  Jewish  "geschaft";  the  scratch- 
ing of  official  pens  was  heard  through  the  open 
windows  of  the  Government  buildings;  the  town 
ladies  wandered  up  and  down  the  bazaars  in  the 
mornings  with  baskets  on  their  arms,  and  in  the 
evenings  came  out  walking  majestically,  leaning  upon 
the  arms  of  their  spouses,  stirring  up  the  street  dust 
with  the  full  trains  of  their  dresses.  The  old  men 
and  women  from  the  castle  decorously  made  the 
round  of  their  patrons  without  disturbing  the  uni- 
versal harmony.  The  townsfolk  gladly  recognised 
their  right  to  existence,  and  considered  it  absolutely 
proper  that  some  people  should  receive  alms  every 
Saturday,  while  the  denizens  of  the  castle  accepted 
this  charity  with  the  utmost  respectability. 


104  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

Only  the  unfortunate  exiles  now  found  no  protec- 
tion in  the  town.  It  is  true  they  no  longer  roamed 
the  streets  at  night,  and  people  said  they  had  taken 
refuge  somewhere  on  the  hill  near  the  dissenting 
chapel,  but  how  they  had  managed  to  find  a  dwelling 
place  there  no  one  could  exactly  say.  All  saw,  how- 
ever, the  most  impossible  and  suspicious-looking  fig- 
ures in  the  world  climb  down  every  morning  from  the 
cliffs  on  which  the  chapel  stood  and  disappear  again 
at  twilight  in  the  same  direction.  These  people  dis- 
turbed the  quiet,  sleepy  life  of  the  town  by  their 
appearance,  standing  out  like  sombre  stains  against 
the  grey  background  of  village  life.  The  citizens 
looked  at  them  askance  with  feelings  of  hostility  and 
alarm,  while  they,  on  the  other  hand,  watched  the 
village  with  furtively  attentive  eyes  that  sent  cold 
chills  running  down  the  back  of  many  a  townsman. 
These  persons  did  not  resemble  in  any  way  the  aris- 
tocratic mendicants  from  the  castle ;  the  town  did  not 
recognise  them  and  they  did  not  ask  for  recognition. 
Their  relations  with  the  community  were  purely  war- 
like in  character ;  they  preferred  cursing  a  townsman 
to  flattering  him ;  they  preferred  taking  things  them- 
selves to  asking  for  them.  Nevertheless,  as  often 
happens  among  a  sombre  mass  of  unfortunates,  there 
were  those  among  them  who,  for  brains  and  talent, 
would  have  been  an  honour  to  the  more  select  society 
of  the  castle,  but  who  had  been  discontented  there, 
and  preferred  the  more  democratic  life  of  the  dis- 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  105 

senting  chapel.  A  few  of  these  poor  creatures 
were  distinguished  by  characteristics  of  profoundest 
tragedy. 

I  remember  vividly  to  this  day  how  merrily  the 
street  would  hum  as  the  melancholy,  stooping  figure 
of  the  old  "Professor"  walked  along  it.  He  was  a 
gentle  being,  oppressed  by  a  clouded  intelligence, 
and  he  wore  an  old  frieze  overcoat  and  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat  trimmed  with  a  faded  cockade.  His 
learned  title  he  had  appropriated,  it  seemed,  because 
of  a  vague  tradition  that  he  had  once,  somehow, 
somewhere,  been  a  tutor.  It  would  be  hard  to  imag- 
ine a  creature  more  mild  and  harmless.  He  could 
generally  be  seen  wandering  about  the  streets  with 
dim  eyes  and  head  sunk  forward  on  his  breast.  The 
ingenious  townsfolk  knew  two  peculiarities  of  his 
which  they  made  use  of  to  procure  a  cruel 
enjoyment  for  themselves.  The  Professor  was  al- 
ways muttering  something  to  himself  and  no  one 
could  ever  make  out  what  he  was  saying.  His  words 
would  trickle  after  one  another  with  the  troubled 
murmur  of  a  little  brooklet,  while  he  fixed  his  vague 
eyes  upon  his  listener's  face  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
convey  to  that  man's  mind  the  elusive  meaning  of  his 
long  discourses.  He  could  be  wound  up  like  a  clock, 
and  to  do  this  it  was  only  necessary  for  one  of  the 
lanky  commissionaires  dozing  on  the  sidewalk  to 
call  the  old  man  to  him  and  ask  him  some  question. 
The  Professor  would  shake  his  head,  pensively  fix  his 


106  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

faded  eyes  upon  the  face  of  his  interlocutor,  and 
begin  to  murmur  something  sorrowful  without  an 
end.  Thereupon  his  questioner  could  calmly  walk 
away  or  go  to  sleep,  and  when  he  woke  he  would  still 
be  certain  to  see  over  him  that  dark,  melancholy  fig- 
ure, murmuring  his  unintelligible  phrases.  But,  natu- 
rally, this  situation  was  not,  in  itself,  particularly 
interesting.  It  was  the  second  of  the  Professor's 
characteristics  that  enabled  the  louts  of  the  street- 
corners  to  procure  their  most  striking  effects.  The 
unhappy  man  could  never  hear  sharp  or  pointed  in- 
struments mentioned  without  emotion.  And  so,  at 
the  very  height  of  his  unintelligible  eloquence,  his 
listener  would  suddenly  jump  up  and  scream  in  a 
harsh  voice :  "Knives,  scissors,  needles,  pins  !"  Then 
the  poor  old  man,  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  his 
reverie,  would  throw  up  his  arms  with  the  gesture  of 
a  wounded  bird,  and  stare  about  him  in  terror  with 
his  hands  clutching  at  his  breast.  Ah,  how  many 
sufferings  are  incomprehensible  to  lanky  commission- 
aires because  the  sufferers  cannot  express  their  pain 
by  means  of  a  lusty  blow !  But  the  poor  Professor 
would  only  look  about  him  in  deep  distress,  and 
his  inexpressible  suffering  could  be  divined  from  his 
voice  as  he  turned  his  clouded  eyes  upon  his  tor- 
mentor and  cried,  convulsively  tearing  at  his  breast : 

"A  hook — a  hook  in  my  heart !" 

He  was  probably  trying  to  say  that  his  heart  had 
been  rent  by  the  townsman's  exclamation,  but  natu- 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  107 

rally  it  was  his  very  circumstance  that  had  served 
to  dispel  somewhat  the  tedium  of  the  street  loafer. 
So  the  poor  Professor  would  hurry  away,  his  head 
bowed  even  lower  than  before,  as  if  he  feared  a  blow, 
and  loud  peals  of  laughter  would  pursue  him  as  the 
pert  townsfolk  ran  out  into  the  street,  filling  the  air 
with  screams  like  the  blows  of  a  lash  and  shouting: 

"Knives,  scissors,  needles,  pins !" 

In  justice  to  the  exiles  from  the  castle,  it  must  be 
said  that  they  always  stood  loyally  by  one  another, 
and  if  two  or  three  of  Turkevich's  tatterdemalions, 
or,  more  especially,  if  the  retired  grenadier  Zausailov 
descended  upon  the  Professor's  pursuers  at  such  a 
time  a  cruel  punishment  always  overtook  a  large 
number  of  that  crowd.  Zausailov,  who  was  the 
possessor  of  a  huge  frame,  a  purplish  blue  nose,  and 
fiercely  protruding  eyes,  had  long  since  declared 
war  on  every  living  being,  and  recognised  neither 
treaties  nor  neutrality.  Each  time  that  he  met  the 
Professor  with  the  rabble  in  pursuit  his  angry  shouts 
would  fill  the  air  then  and  long  after,  as  he  swept 
through  the  streets  like  Tamerlane,  destroying  every- 
thing that  stood  in  the  way  of  his  redoubtable  prog- 
ress. Thus  he  practised  "pogroms"  on  the  Jews  on 
a  large  scale  long  before  they  had  begun  to  break  out 
elsewhere.  He  would  torture  every  Jew  that  fell  a 
prisoner  into  his  hands  and  wreak  insults  on 
the  Hebrew  ladies  until  at  last  the  expedition  of  the 
bold  grenadier  would  come  to  an  end  in  the  gaol, 


108  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

where  he  was  invariably  domiciled  after  his  bloody 
bouts  with  the  populace  in  which  both  sides  always 
manifested  no  small  amount  of  valour. 

The  other  individual  the  sight  of  whose  misfortunes 
and  downfall  was  a  source  of  great  amusement  to 
the  people,  was  Lavrovski,  a  retired  and  absolutely 
drink-sodden  Civil  Servant.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
town  could  easily  remember  the  time  when  Lavrovski 
was  never  spoken  of  as  anything  but  "My  Lord  the 
Secretary" ;  when  he  went  about  in  a  uniform  with 
brass  buttons,  his  neck  swathed  in  handkerchiefs  of 
the  most  marvellous  hues.  It  is  likely  that  this  cir- 
cumstance lent  an  additional  piquancy  to  the  contem- 
plation of  his  present  state.  The  change  in  Lavrov- 
ski's  life  had  come  swiftly ;  it  had  sufficed  for  a  certain 
brilliant  officer  of  dragoons  to  come  to  Kniazh  Goro- 
dok  and  live  there  for  two  weeks.  In  that  time  he 
succeeded  in  winning  and  carrying  off  a  golden- 
haired  lady,  the  rich  innkeeper's  daughter.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  town  never  heard  of  the  beautiful 
Anna  again,  for  she  had  sunk  forever  beneath  their 
horizon.  And  so  Lavrovski  was  left  with  all  his 
bright-hued  handkerchiefs,  but  without  the  hope  that 
had  once  embellished  the  life  of  the  little  official.  It 
was  long  since  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  Civil  Servant. 
Somewhere,  in  some  remote  village,  there  lived  a  fam- 
ily whose  hope  and  mainstay  he  had  once  been,  but 
he  had  lost  all  care  for  anything  now.  In  his  rare 
sober  moments  he  would  walk  swiftly  through  the 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  109 

streets  with  downcast  eyes,  looking  at  no  one,  as 
if  he  were  overcome  with  shame  at  the  fact  of  his 
own  existence.  Ragged,  dirty,  with  long,  unkempt 
hair,  he  was  always  a  prominent  figure  in  a  crowd, 
and  attracted  universal  attention  to  himself,  but 
he  seemed  never  to  notice  any  one,  or  to  hear  any- 
thing. Only  occasionally  would  he  cast  a  wild 
look  of  bewilderment  about  him,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"What  do  these  strangers  want  of  me?  What  have  I 
done  to  them,  and  why  do  they  follow  me  so  per- 
sistently with  their  mockery?"  If,  during  one  of 
these  flashes  of  consciousness,  his  ear  caught  the 
name  of  the  lady  with  the  golden  hair  a  tempestuous 
fury  would  rise  in  his  heart,  his  eyes  would  shine  in  his 
pale  face  with  dark  fire,  and  he  would  throw  himself 
upon  the  crowd  of  his  tormentors,  which  would  then 
quickly  disperse.  These  flashes  of  anger,  rare  as  they 
were,  strangely  provoked  the  interest  of  the  loafers 
who  found  that  time  hung  heavily  on  their  hands, 
and  it  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  when  Lavrovski  walked 
down  the  street  with  downcast  eyes,  the  rabble  that 
followed  him  should  try  to  rouse  him  from  his  apathy, 
and  at  last  begin  to  throw  mud  and  stones  at  him. 

When  Lavrovski  was  drunk  he  would  obstinately 
seek  out  dark  fence-corners  and  swampy  meadows  and 
other  such  extraordinary  places,  and  there  he  would 
sit,  his  long  legs  stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  his 
poor  grey  head  sunk  on  his  breast.  Solitude  and 
vodka  awoke  in  him  a  flow  of  expansiveness  and  a 


110  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

desire  to  pour  forth  the  sorrow  of  his  heavy  heart, 
so  he  would  embark  upon  endless  stories  of  his  ruined 
youth,  addressing  himself  now  to  the  grey  posts  of 
the  ancient  fence,  now  to  the  birch  trees  indulgently 
whispering  something  over  his  head,  now  to  the  mag- 
pies that  came  hopping  up  to  his  gloomy  figure  with 
feminine  curiosity. 

If  any  of  us  little  boys  succeeded  in  tracking  him 
to  such  a  place  we  would  silently  surround  him  and 
listen  with  beating  hearts  to  his  long  and  terrible 
stories.  Our  hair  would  stand  on  end  as  we  gazed 
with  horror  at  that  pale  creature  accusing  him- 
self of  every  crime  under  the  sun.  According  to 
Lavrovski's  own  account  he  had  killed  his  father, 
driven  his  mother  into  the  grave,  and  brought  dis- 
grace on  his  brothers  and  sisters.  We  had  no  reason 
for  not  believing  these  fearful  confessions,  and  were 
'only  surprised  that  Lavrovski  seemed  to  have  had 
several  fathers ;  he  had  thrust  a  sword  into  the  heart 
of  one,  another  he  had  killed  with  slow  poison,  a  third 
he  had  dragged  down  with  him  into  some  abyss  or 
other.  So  we  would  listen,  overwhelmed  with  sym- 
pathy and  horror,  until  Lavrovski's  tongue  became 
more  and  more  entangled  and  at  last  ceased  to  be 
able  to  pronounce  articulate  sounds ;  merciful  sleep 
would  then  put  an  end  to  the  outpouring  of  his 
confessions. 

The  grown  people  laughed  at  us  and  told  us  that 
these  stories  were  all  moonshine,  and  that  Lavrovski's 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  111 

4 

parents  had  died  a  natural  death  from  sickness  or 
starvation.  But  our  tender,  childish  hearts  heard 
the  cries  of  genuine  affliction  in  his  groans,  and,  tak- 
ing the  allegories  of  the  unhappy  man  literally,  we 
came  nearer  than  our  elders  to  understanding  the 
tragic  wrecking  of  his  life. 

When  Lavrovski's  head  had  sunk  lower  than  ever 
and  snores,  broken  by  nervous  sobs,  came  from  his 
throat,  we  would  lean  our  little  heads  over  the  poor 
man.  We  would  peer  into  his  face  and  watch  the 
shadows  of  his  misdeeds  flitting  across  it  even  in  his 
sleep ;  we  would  see  his  brows  contract  convulsively 
and  his  lips  tighten  in  a  piteous,  almost  childishly 
plaintive  grimace. 

"I'll  kill  you!"  he  once  shrieked  suddenly,  con- 
scious of  a  vague  uneasiness  caused  by  our  presence, 
and  at  this  we  scattered  like  a  flock  of  startled 
birds. 

It  sometimes  happened  that  rain  fell  on  him  sleep- 
ing thus,  dust  covered  him,  and  several  times  in  the 
autumn  he  was  literally  buried  in  snow.  If  he  did  not 
die  an  untimely  death,  he  without  doubt  owed  this  to 
the  care  which  other  unfortunates  like  himself  took  of 
his  pitiful  person.  Especially  did  he  owe  his  life  to 
the  jolly  Turkevich,  who  would  search  him  out,  pull 
him  up,  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  him  away  with 
him. 

Turkevich  belonged  to  the  class  of  people,  who, 
as  he  himself  expressed  it,  do  not  spit  in  their  own 


IN  BAD  COMPANY 

porridge,  and  while  the  Professor  and  Lavrovsld  were 
passive  sufferers,  he  presented  the  appearance  of  a 
person  who  was  happy  and  fortunate  in  many  ways. 
To  begin  with,  he  had  suddenly  announced  that  he 
was  a  general  without  asking  the  assent  of  any  one, 
and  demanded  that  the  townsfolk  should  call  him  by 
that  honourable  title.  As  no  one  dared  to  question 
his  right  to  it,  Turkevich  very  soon  became  imbued 
with  a  belief  in  his  own  greatness.  He  always  stalked 
along  very  majestically,  knitting  his  brows  severely, 
and  displaying  a  perfect  readiness  to  break  any  one's 
jaw,  which  last  act  he  evidently  considered  the  special 
prerogative  of  a  general.  If  his  care  free  brain  was 
ever  visited  for  a  moment  by  doubts  on  the  score  of 
his  title,  he  would  catch  the  first  man  he  saw  on  the 
street  and  sternly  ask  him : 

"Who  am  I,  eh?" 

"General  Turkevich!"  the  man  would  answer 
meekly,  feeling  himself  in  an  awkward  position, 
whereupon  Turkevich  would  slowly  release  him  and 
proudly  twirl  his  whiskers. 

"Ex-actly!" 

And  as  he  had,  beside  all  this,  a  very  special  way 
of  twirling  his  beetling  moustache  and  an  inexhausti- 
ble fund  of  quaint  sayings  and  witticisms,  it  was  not 
surprising  that  he  was  constantly  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  lively  listeners.  Even  the  doors  of  the  best 
restaurants,  where  the  landholders  of  the  country  as- 
sembled to  play  billiards,  were  open  to  him.  To  tell 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  113 

the  truth,  however,  it  not  infrequently  happened  that 
General  Turkevich  would  come  flying  out  of  them 
with  the  alacrity  of  a  man  who  is  being  shoved  rather 
unceremoniously  from  behind.  But  these  incidents, 
which  he  explained  by  the  lack  of  respect  the  land- 
holders had  for  wit,  had  no  effect  upon  Turkevich's 
general  frame  of  mind.  A  state  of  happy  self-confi- 
dence and  continual  intoxication — that  was  his  nor- 
mal condition. 

In  this  last  circumstance  lay  the  second  key  to  his 
felicity ;  one  glass  of  vodka  was  enough  to  keep  him 
fuddled  for  a  day.  This  fact  people  explained  by  the 
immense  quantity  which  Turkevich  had  already 
drunk,  and  which  was  said  to  have  converted  his 
blood  into  a  solution  of  vodka.  All  that  was  neces- 
sary now  was  for  the  General  to  bring  this  solution 
to  a  proper  strength,  for  it  to  ripple  and  rush 
through  his  veins,  painting  the  world  for  him  with 
rainbow  tints. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  for  one  reason  or  another, 
the  General  could  not  procure  a  glass  of  vodka  for 
a  day  or  two,  he  would  suffer  the  most  excruciating 
torture.  First  he  would  fall  into  a  fit  of  melancholy 
and  low  spirits.  All  knew  that  at  these  times  tjje 
terrible  General  was  more  helpless  than  a  child,  and 
many  hastened  to  wreak  vengeance  upon  him  then 
for  insults  received.  They  would  beat  him  and  spit 
upon  him  and  cover  him  with  mud,  while  he  would  not 
even  try  to  run  away  from  the  disgrace,  but  would 


114  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

bellow  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  while  the  tears  streamed 
in  torrents  down  his  long,  drooping  moustache.  The 
poor  wretch  would  turn  to  every  one,  imploring  them 
to  kill  him;  saying  that,  anyhow,  he  was  doomed  to 
die  a  dog's  death  in  a  fence  corner.  At  that  every 
one  would  stand  aside,  for  there  was  something  in  the 
voice  and  face  of  the  General  at  those  times  which 
sent  even  his  most  determined  enemies  away  as  fast 
as  their  legs  could  carry  them.  They  could  not 
bear  to  see  the  face,  to  hear  the  voice  of  a  man  who, 
for  an  instant,  was  conscious  of  the  appalling  trag- 
edy of  his  lot. 

Then  another  change  would  come  over  the  General 
and  he  would  grow  terrible  to  look  at.  His  eyes 
would  flash  feverishly,  his  cheeks  would  cave  in,  his 
short  hair  would  bristle  on  his  head,  he  would  go  off 
into  a  kind  of  frenzy,  and,  rising  to  his  feet,  would 
stalk  triumphantly  through  the  streets,  beating  his 
breast  and  announcing  to  every  one  in  a  loud  voice: 

"I  am  going!  Like  Jeremiah,  I  am  going  to  de- 
nounce the  ungodly!" 

This  was  always  the  signal  for  an  interesting  scene. 

It  may  safely  be  said  that  Turkevich  played  the 
part  of  a  famous  person  in  our  little  town,  so  it 
was  small  wonder  that  the  scdatest  and  busiest  of  our 
townsmen  should  drop  their  work  and  mingle  with 
the  rabble  at  the  heels  of  the  new  prophet,  or  that  at 
least  they  should  watch  his  progress  from  afar.  He 
usually  went  first  to  the  Secretary  of  the  County 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  115 

Court,  and  before  his  house  he  would  hold  something 
like  a  session  of  court,  choosing  suitable  members  of 
the  crowd  to  take  the  parts  of  the  plaintiff  and  the 
defendant.  He  himself  would  make  the  pleas  and 
reply  to  them,  mimicking  very  skilfully  the  voice  and 
manner  of  a  prisoner. 

As  he  was  always  able  to  give  a  contemporary 
flavour  to  his  performances  by  alluding  to  some  fact 
well  known  to  all,  and  as  he  was  extremely  well  versed 
in  the  procedures  of  a  court  room,  it  was  not  sur- 
prising that  the  Secretary's  cook  should  come  flying 
out  of  the  house  in  a  twinkling,  touch  Turkevich  on 
the  arm,  and  hastily  disappear,  repulsing  as  she  went 
the  attentions  of  Turkevich's  followers.  Turkevich 
would  laugh  sardonically  on  receiving  this  gift,  and, 
waving  the  money  triumphantly,  would  retire  to  the 
nearest  tavern. 

Having  slightly  slaked  his  thirst  there,  he  would 
continue  to  lead  his  audience  from  house  to  house  of 
those  whom  he  "denounced,"  varying  his  programme 
to  suit  each  particular  case.  As  he  always  received 
money  for  each  performance,  his  fierce  tone  would 
gradually  become  more  mild,  his  moustache  would  be- 
gin to  curl  once  more,  and  the  denunciatory  drama 
gradually  became  a  merry  vaudeville  that  generally 
ended  in  front  of  the  house  where  Kotz,  the  Captain 
of  Police,  lived.  Kotz  was  the  most  kindly  of  all  the 
city  officials  and  had  only  two  little  weaknesses :  he 
dyed  his  grey  hair  black  and  had  a  partiality  for  fat 


116  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

cooks.  In  everything  else  he  showed  an  implicit 
confidence  in  the  will  of  God  and  the  "gratitude"  of 
the  townsfolk.  Having  arrived  in  front  of  the  Police 
Captain's  house,  Turkevich  would  wink  gaily  at  his 
companions,  throw  up  his  cap,  and  announce  in 
stentorian  tones  that  not  the  Police  Captain  lived 
here,  but  Turkevich's  own  father  and  benefactor. 

Then  he  would  fix  his  eyes  on  the  windows  and  await 
results.  The  consequence  was  always  one  of  two 
things:  either  the  fat,  red-cheeked  Matriona  would 
come  running  out  of  the  front  door  with  a  present 
from  Turkevich's  "father  and  benefactor,"  or  the 
door  would  remain  closed,  and  Turkevich  would 
catch  sight  at  a  winclow  of  an  angry  old  face  in  a 
frame  of  coal-black  hair,  while  Matriona  would  creep 
through  back  ways  to  the  police  station.  There  the 
cobbler  Mikita,  who  made  a  very  good  living  out 
of  these  very  affairs  with  Turkevich,  was  always  sit- 
ting. On  seeing  Matriona  he  would  immediately 
throw  down  his  boot-last  and  rise  from  his  seat. 

Meanwhile  Turkevich,  seeing  that  no  good  results 
followed  his  dithyrambs,  would,  little  by  little,  cau- 
tiously have  recourse  to  satire.  He  would  usually 
begin  by  remarking  what  a  pity  it  was  that  his  bene- 
factor thought  it  necessary  to  dye  his  honourable 
grey  hair  with  shoe  blacking.  Next,  grieved  by  the 
absolute  lack  of  attention  which  his  eloquence  re- 
ceived, he  would  raise  his  voice  and  begin  to  assail 
his  benefactor  as  a  melancholy  example  of  a 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  117 

man  living  illegally  with  Matriona.  By  the  time  he 
reached  this  delicate  subject,  the  General  had  always 
lost  all  hope  of  reconciliation  with  his  "benefactor," 
and  would  therefore  arm  himself  with  all  the  genuine 
eloquence  of  indignation.  It  was  a  pity  that  an  un- 
expected interruption  almost  always  came  at  this 
point  in  his  speech.  Kotz's  angry  yellow  face  would 
appear  thrust  out  of  one  of  the  windows  of  his  house, 
and  Mikita,  who  had  crept  up  with  marvellous  dex- 
terity, would  seize  Turkevich  from  behind.  No  mem- 
ber of  his  audience  ever  tried  to  warn  the  orator  of 
his  approaching  danger,  for  Mikita's  artistic  methods 
always  called  forth  universal  admiration.  Cut  off  in 
the  midst  of  a  word,  the  General  would  suddenly  whirl 
through  the  air  and  find  himself  upside  down  on  Miki- 
ta's back.  A  few  seconds  more,  and  the  sturdy  cob- 
bler would  be  quietly  making  his  way  to  the  gaol, 
bending  slightly  beneath  his  burden,  and  followed  by 
the  deafening  shouts  of  the  populace.  Another  min- 
ute, and  the  black  door  of  the  police  station  would 
gape  like  a  pair  of  forbidding  jaws  and  the  General 
would  disappear  into  the  darkness,  helplessly  kick- 
ing his  feet.  The  thankless  mob  would  cry,  "Hurrah 
for  Mikita !"  and  gradually  melt  away. 

Beside  these  individuals  who  were  conspicuous 
among  the  ranks  of  the  vagabonds,  a  dark  crew  of 
pitiful,  ragged  creatures  had  taken  refuge  near  the, 
chapel,  and  these  never  failed  to  create  intense  ex- 
citement by  their  appearance  at  the  bazaars.  The 


118  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

merchants  would  hastily  seek  to  protect  their  goods 
with  their  hands,  as  a  hen  covers  her  brood  when  a 
hawk  appears  in  the  sky  above  her.  There  was  a 
rumour  afloat  that  these  poor  wretches  had  formed 
a  fraternal  organisation  and  that  now,  since  they  had 
been  deprived  of  their  last  resources  by  their  expul- 
sion from  the  castle,  they  occupied  themselves  with 
petty  thieving  in  the  town  and  its  environs.  Such 
rumours  were  chiefly  founded  on  the  fact  that  a  man 
cannot  live  without  bread,  and  as  all  the  suspicious 
persons  had  in  some  way  or  other  abandoned  the 
normal  way  of  obtaining  it,  and  had  been  cut  off 
from  the  benefits  of  local  charity,  it  was  naturally 
concluded  that  they  must  either  steal  or  die.  As  they 
did  not  die,  the  very  fact  of  their  remaining  alive  was 
evidence  of  their  guilty  practices. 

If  this  was  true,  it  was  no  less  apparent  that  the 
organiser  and  leader  of  the  band  could  be  no  other 
than  Tiburtsi  Drab,  the  most  remarkable  of  all  the 
queer  characters  that  had  lost  their  home  in  the  castle. 

Drab's  origin  was  shrouded  in  the  most  mystifying 
uncertainty.  Those  who  were  gifted  with  a  vivid 
imagination  credited  him  with  having  an  aristocratic 
name  which  he  had  brought  to  shame ;  he  was  there- 
fore obliged  to  conceal  himself,  at  the  same  time  tak- 
ing part,  it  was  said,  in  the  exploits  of  the  notorious 
Karmeliuk.  But,  in  the  first  place,  he  was  not  old 
enough  for  this,  and,  in  the  second  place,  Tiburtsi's 
appearance  did  not  present  one  single  aristocratic 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  119 

feature.  He  was  tall,  and  his  heavily  stooping  shoul- 
ders seemed  to  tell  of  great  burdens  borne  by  the 
unfortunate  man.  His  large  features  were  coarsely 
expressive.  His  short,  reddish  hair  bristled  stiffly  all 
over  his  head ;  his  receding  forehead,  his  slightly  pro- 
jecting lower  jaw,  and  the  rapid  play  of  his  facial 
muscles  lent  something  apish  to  his  face,  but  the  eyes 
that  sparkled  under  his  beetling  brows  were  deter- 
mined and  dark,  and  there  shone  in  them,  beside 
cunning,  a  keen  perspicacity,  energy,  and  an  uncom- 
mon intelligence.  While  his  features  were  changing 
under  the  kaleidoscopic  play  of  his  expressions,  his 
eyes  would  retain  their  same  fixed,  unvarying  look, 
and  for  this  reason  the  buffoonery  of  the  strange  man 
filled  me  with  unreasoning  dread. 

Tiburtsi's  hands  were  callous  and  rough,  and  he 
stamped  his  great  feet  like  a  peasant.  Therefore 
the  consensus  of  opinion  among  the  townsfolk  was 
that  he  was  not  of  aristocratic  birth,  and  the  most 
they  would  concede  was  that  he  might  have  been  the 
servant  of  a  great  family.  But  here  another  diffi- 
culty presented  itself:  how,  then,  explain  the  phe- 
nomenal learning  that  every  one  unanimously  ad- 
mitted he  possessed?  It  was  impossible  not  to  ac- 
knowledge this  obvious  fact,  for  there  was  not  a 
tavern  in  the  whole  town,  where  Tiburtsi  had  not 
stood  on  a  barrel  and  spouted  whole  speeches  from 
Cicero  and  Xenophon  for  the  benefit  of  the  Little 
Russians  collected  there  on  market  days.  These 


120  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

Little  Russians  would  gape  and  nudge  one  another 
with  their  elbows,  while  Tiburtsi,  towering  above 
them  in  his  rags,  would  thunder  forth  Catilinus  or 
paint  the  exploits  of  Caesar  and  the  craft  of  Mithri- 
dates.  Little  Russians  are,  by  nature,  endowed  with 
a  glowing  fancy,  and  these  were  able  to  read  their 
own  meaning  into  Tiburtsi's  fiery  if  unintelligible 
speeches.  When  the  orator  beat  his  breast  and 
turned  to  them  with  flashing  eyes,  exclaiming: 
"Patres  Conscripti!"  they  too  would  knit  their 
brows  and  say  to  one  another: 

"Aha,  the  son  of  a  gun,  he  does  bark !" 
Later,  when  Tiburtsi  would  raise  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling  and  begin  declaiming  endless  verses  of  Latin 
poetry,  his  whiskered  audience  would  follow  every 
word  he  uttered  with  timid  and  pitying  sympathy. 
They  felt  as  if  the  soul  of  their  orator  were  soar- 
ing somewhere  in  an  unknown  region  where  people 
did  not  talk  like  Christians,  and  by  his  despairing 
gestures  they  concluded  that  it  was  there  meeting 
with  the  most  sorrowful  adventures.  But  this  sym- 
pathetic tension  reached  its  height  whenever  Tiburtsi 
rolled  up  his  eyes  so  that  only  the  whites  were  visible 
and  wrung  his  audience's  heart  with  endless  recita- 
tions from  Virgil  and  from  Homer.  Such  hollow, 
sepulchral  tones  would  then  shake  his  voice  that 
those  who  sat  farthest  away  and  were  most  under  the 
influence  of  the  Jewish  "gorelka"  *  would  hang  their 
*Gorelka:  corn-whiskey. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY 

heads  until  their  long  top-knots  dangled  before  them, 
and  begin  to  sob: 

"Oh,  oh,  little  mother,  how  sad  it  is !"  while  the 
tears  would  flow  from  their  eyes  and  trickle  piteously 
down  their  long  whiskers. 

This  learning  of  the  queer  fellow's  made  it  neces- 
sary to  invent  a  new  hypothesis  about  him  which 
should  tally  more  closely  with  the  obvious  facts.  It 
was  at  last  agreed  that  Tiburtsi  had  once  been 
the  house-boy  of  a  count  who  had  sent  him  to  a 
Jesuit  school  with  his  own  son,  desiring  that  he 
should  clean  the  young  gentleman's  boots.  It  ap- 
peared, however,  that  the  young  count  had  received 
most  of  the  blows  of  the  holy  fathers'  three-tailed 
"disciplinarian,"  while  the  servant  had  appropriated 
the  learning  intended  for  the  head  of  his  master. 

As  a  result  of  the  mystery  which  surrounded  Ti- 
burtsi, he  was  credited  among  other  things  with  hav- 
ing an  intimate  knowledge  of  witchcraft.  If  a 
"witch-ball"  *  suddenly  appeared  in  the  billowy 
fields  that  closed  like  a  sea  about  the  last  hovels  of 
the  town,  no  one  could  pull  it  up  with  less  danger 
to  himself  and  to  the  reapers  than  Tiburtsi.  If  an 
owl  settled  in  the  evening  on  some  one's  roof  and, 
with  loud  cries,  summoned  death  to  the  house,  Ti- 
burtsi would  be  sent  for  and  would  drive  the  ill- 
omened  bird  away  by  reciting  quotations  from  Livy. 

*  An  interwoven  mass  of  the  stems  of  herbaceous  plants 
often  met  with  on  the  steppes  of  Russia. 


122  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

No  one  could  even  conjecture  how  Tiburtsi  hap- 
pened to  have  children,  and  yet  the  fact  was  obvious ; 
there  were  even  two  facts,  a  boy  of  seven,  unusually 
well-grown  and  intelligent  for  his  age,  and  a  little 
girl  of  three.  Tiburtsi  had  led,  or  rather  carried, 
the  boy  with  him  during  the  early  days  of  his  ap- 
pearance over  our  horizon.  As  for  the  little  girl,  he 
had  seemed  to  vanish  for  several  months  into  an  abso- 
lutely unknown  place  in  order  to  procure  her. 

The  boy,  whose  name  was  Valek,  was  tall  and  thin 
and  dark.  He  might  sometimes  be  seen  sauntering 
gloomily  about  the  town  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
casting  sidelong  glances  about  him  without  having 
anything  in  particular  to  do,  and  was  the  cause  of 
many  a  palpitating  heart  to  the  bakers. 

The  little  girl  was  only  seen  once  or  twice,  borne 
aloft  in  Tiburtsi's  arms.  She  then  disappeared  and 
no  one  knew  whither  she  had  gone. 

People  spoke  of  certain  subterranean  passages  on 
the  hill  near  the  dissenting  chapel,  and  such  places 
were  not  uncommon  in  that  part  of  Russia,  over 
which  the  Tartars  had  so  often  swept  with  fire  and 
sword,  where  Polish  licence  had  run  high,  and  where 
the  fierce  heroes  of  the  old  Ukraine  had  held  their 
bloody  tribunals.  So  every  one  believed  in  the  exist- 
ence of  these  caves,  especially  as  it  was  clear  that  the 
band  of  poor  unfortunates  must  be  living  somewhere. 
They  always  disappeared  toward  evening  in  precisely 
the  direction  of  the  chapel.  Thither  the  Professor 


IN  BAD  COMPANY 

hobbled  with  his  drowsy  gait ;  thither  strode  Tiburtsi, 
swiftly  and  resolutely ;  thither  staggered  Turkevich, 
leading  the  fierce  and  helpless  Lavrovski;  thither 
went  a  crowd  of  other  suspicious  creatures,  and  van- 
ished into  the  darkness  of  night.  There  was  no  man 
brave  enough  to  follow  them  up  the  slippery  clay 
landslides  that  clothed  the  hillside.  The  hill,  which 
was  honeycombed  with  graves,  enjoyed  an  evil  repu- 
tation. Blue  flames  might  be  seen  burning  in  the  old 
cemetery  in  the  dusk  of  autumn  nights,  and  the 
screech  owls  hooted  so  shrilly  and  loudly  in  the 
chapel  that  even  the  blacksmith's  fearless  heart  would 
quail  when  the  cries  of  the  accursed  birds  came  to  his 
ears. 

Ill 

MY  FATHER  AND  I 

"This  is  bad,  young  man,  bad!"  old  Yanush  used 
often  to  say,  meeting  me  in  the  street  in  Turke- 
vich's  train  or  among  Tiburtsi's  audience. 

And  as  he  said  this  the  old  man  would  wag  his 
grey  beard. 

"This  is  bad,  young  man;  you  are  in  bad  com- 
pany. It  is  a  pity,  a  very  great  pity  to  see  the 
son  of  such  honourable  parents  among  them." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  since  my  mother  had  died 
and  my  father's  gloomy  face  had  become  even  more 


124  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

sombre  than  before,  I  was  very  seldom  seen  at  home. 
I  used  to  creep  into  the  garden  like  a  young  wolf 
in  the  late  summer  evenings,  carefully  avoid  a 
meeting  with  my  father,  open  my  window  which  was 
half-concealed  by  lilac  bushes,  and  slip  silently  into 
bed.  If  my  little  sister  was  not  asleep  in  her  cradle 
in  the  next  room  I  used  to  go  in  to  see  her,  and  we 
would  softly  kiss  one  another  and  play  together, 
taking  care  not  to  wake  our  grumbling  old  nurse. 

In  the  morning,  at  break  of  day,  while  every  one 
else  in  the  house  was  still  asleep,  I  was  already  trac- 
ing a  dewy  pathway  through  the  tall  grass  of  our 
garden,  jumping  across  the  fence,  and  making  my 
way  to  the  pond  where  my  madcap  companions  would 
be  waiting  for  me  with  fishing  rods.  Or  else  I  would 
go  down  to  the  mill  where  the  sleepy  miller  would 
have  opened  the  sluices  a  few  moments  before,  and 
where  the  water,  its  glassy  surface  delicately  quiv- 
ering, would  already  be  plunging  down  the  mill-race, 
going  bravely  on  its  way  to  its  daily  toil. 

The  big  mill-wheels,  roused  by  the  water's  noisy 
blows,  would  quiver  too  and  seem  to  yield  unwill- 
ingly, as  if  loath  to  forego  their  sleep,  but  next 
moment  they  would  be  turning,  splashing  the  foam 
about,  and  bathing  themselves  in  the  cold  torrent. 

Behind  them  the  shafts  would  slowly  begin  to  re- 
volve ;  inside  the  mill  pinions  would  rattle,  millstones 
would  whirr,  and  a  white  floury  dust  would  rise  in 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  125 

clouds  through  the  cracks  of  the  venerable  build- 
ing. 

Then  I  would  run  on — I  loved  to  meet  Nature  at 
her  awakening.  I  was  glad  when  I  succeeded  in 
rousing  a  sleepy  lark  or  in  startling  a  timid  hare 
from  its  form.  The  dew-drops  would  be  dripping 
from  the  maiden-hair  and  from  the  faces  of  the 
meadow  flowers  as  I  crossed  the  fields  on  my  way 
to  the  woods  beyond  the  town.  The  trees  would  greet 
me  with  a  drowsy  murmur.  The  pale,  surly  faces 
of  the  prisoners  would  not  yet  be  peering  from  the 
windows  of  the  gaol,  and  only  the  sentry  would 
be  walking  around  its  walls,  noisily  rattling  his 
rifle  as  he  relieved  the  tired  night-watchman. 

Although  I  had  made  a  long  round,  when  I  reached 
the  town  again  I  would  still  meet  sleepy  figures 
here  and  there,  opening  the  shutters  of  the  houses. 
But  when  the  sun  rose  over  the  hill,  a  rackety  bell 
would  ring  out  across  the  ponds  calling  the  school- 
boys together,  and  hunger  would  drive  me  home  to 
my  morning  tea. 

Every  one  called  me  a  tramp  and  a  young  good- 
for-nothing,  and  I  was  on  the  whole  so  often  re- 
proached with  my  many  wicked  tendencies,  that 
at  last  I  came  to  be  persuaded  of  them  myself.  My 
father  believed  in  them  too,  and  sometimes  made 
an  effort  to  take  my  education  in  hand,  but  these 
attempts  invariably  ended  in  failure.  The  sight  of 
his  stern,  melancholy  face  on  which  lay  the  harsh 


126  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

imprint  of  inconsolable  grief  frightened  me  and  drove 
me  into  myself.  I  would  stand  uneasily  before  him, 
first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  glancing 
about  me,  and  plucking  at  my  little  breeches.  Some- 
times I  seemed  to  feel  something  rising  in  my  breast ; 
I  wanted  him  to  kiss  me  and  take  me  on  his  knee. 
I  should  then  have  nestled  to  his  breast  and  perhaps 
we  should  have  wept  together — the  stern  man  and 
the  child — at  the  thought  of  our  common  loss.  But 
he  would  look  at  me  instead  with  dim  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  staring  at  something  over  my  head, 
and  I  would  shrink  under  that  gaze,  which  was  in- 
comprehensible to  me. 

"Do  you  remember  your  mother?" 

Did  I  remember  her?  Ah,  yes,  I  remembered!  I 
remembered  how,  in  the  night,  I  used  to  awaken  and, 
finding  her  soft  arms  in  the  darkness,  would  nestle 
near  them,  covering  them  with  kisses.  I  remem- 
bered her  as  she  had  sat  dying  at  the  open  window, 
gazing  sorrowfully  at  the  lovely  Spring  landscape 
before  her,  bidding  it  farewell  in  the  last  year  of 
her  life. 

Ah,  yes,  I  remembered  her!  As  she  lay  beautiful, 
young,  and  covered  with  flowers,  but  with  the  seal 
of  death  upon  her  pale  face,  I  had  crouched  in  a 
corner  like  a  young  wild  thing,  staring  at  her  with 
burning  eyes  before  which  the  whole  awful  riddle 
of  life  and  death  was  being  unfolded.  And  at  last, 
when  a  crowd  of  strangers  had  borne  her  away,  was 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  127 

it  not  my  sobs  that  filled  the  house  with  low  sounds 
of  weeping  on  the  first  night  of  my  bereavement? 

Ah  yes,  I  remembered  her !  And  still,  in  the  silence 
of  night,  I  would  awaken  with  my  childish  heart 
bursting  with  an  overflowing  love,  a  smile  of  happi- 
ness on  my  lips,  in  blessed  forgetfulness,  wrapped 
in  the  rosy  dreams  of  childhood.  And  once  more 
it  seemed  that  she  was  with  me,  and  that  at  any 
moment  I  might  feel  again  her  gentle,  loving  kiss. 
But  my  arms  would  reach  out  into  the  empty  dark- 
ness, and  again  the  consciousness  of  my  bitter  lone- 
liness would  pierce  my  soul.  Then  I  would  press 
my  hands  to  my  aching  heart  and  scalding  tears 
would  trickle  down  my  cheeks. 

Ah  yes,  I  remembered  her !  But  at  the  question  of 
that  tall,  stern  man  with  whom  I  wished  to  feel  a 
sense  of  kinship  and  could  not,  I  would  wince  more 
than  ever,  and  quietly  withdraw  my  little  hand  from 
his. 

And  he  would  turn  away  from  me  with  anger  and 
pain.  He  felt  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  influence 
over  me,  that  an  insurmountable  barrier  stood  be- 
tween us.  He  had  loved  her  too  much  while  she 
was  alive  to  notice  me  in  his  happiness,  and  now  his 
deep  sorrow  hid  me  from  him. 

So  little  by  little  the  gulf  dividing  us  grew  ever 
wider  and  deeper.  He  became  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  I  was  a  wicked,  worthless  boy,  with  a 
hard,  selfish  heart,  and  the  feeling  that  he  should 


128  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

but  could  not  teach  me ;  should  love  me,  but  could 
not  find  a  corner  in  his  heart  to  harbour  this  love, 
still  more  increased  his  dislike  for  me.  And  this  I 
felt.  I  used  to  watch  him  sometimes  from  where  I 
stood  hidden  behind  the  shrubbery.  He  would  walk 
up  and  down  the  garden  paths  with  ever  quickening 
footsteps,  groaning  with  the  unbearable  agony  in 
his  heart.  My  heart  too  would  ache  with  sympathy 
and  pity  at  the  sight  of  him.  Once,  when  he  took 
his  head  in  his  hands  and  sank  down  sobbing  on  a 
bench,  I  could  endure  it  no  longer  and  ran  out  of 
the  shrubbery  into  the  path,  impelled  by  an  un- 
definable  impulse  to  be  near  him. 

But  he,  roused  from  his  gloomy  and  hopeless  medi- 
tations, looked  at  me  sternly  and  checked  me  with 
the  cold  question : 

"What  do  you  want?" 

I  did  not  want  anything.  I  turned  quickly  away, 
ashamed  of  my  outburst,  afraid  lest  my  father  should 
read  it  in  my  blushing  face.  I  ran  into  the  grove  in 
the  garden  and  falling  on  my  face  in  the  grass  wept 
bitterly  from  vexation  and  pain. 

At  six  years  I  had  already  experienced  all  the  hpr- 
rors  of  loneliness. 

My  sister  Sonia  was  four.  I  loved  her  passion- 
ately and  she  returned  my  love,  but  the  general,  fixed 
opinion  that  I  was  an  out-and-out  little  rascal  at 
last  succeeded  in  raising  a  high  barrier  between  us. 
Whenever  I  began  to  play  with  her  in  my  noisy, 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  129 

frolicsome  way,  our  old  nurse,  always  sleepy  and 
always  picking  over  hen  feathers  for  pillows  with 
closed  eyes,  would  wake  up  in  an  instant,  swiftly 
seize  my  Sonia,  and  carry  her  away,  throwing  an 
angry  glance  at  me.  At  such  times  she  always  re- 
minded me  of  a  ruffled  brood-hen,  while  I  likened 
myself  to  a  marauding  hawk,  and  Sonia  to  a  little 
chicken.  I  would  be  hurt  and  vexed.  It  was  no 
wonder,  then,  that  I  soon  abandoned  all  attempts 
to  amuse  Sonia  with  my  objectionable  games,  and 
in  a  little  while  both  our  house  and  the  little  garden 
began  to  grow  irksome  to  me,  for  I  found  there 
neither  welcome  nor  kindness.  I  began  to  roam.  My 
whole  being  was  quivering  with  strange  presenti- 
ments ;  a  foretaste,  as  it  were,  of  life.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  should  surely  find  something  somewhere 
out  there,  in  that  great,  unknown  world  beyond  the 
old  walled  garden;  I  felt  as  if  I  should  and  would 
do  something,  only  I  knew  not  what,  and  from  the 
bottom  of  my  soul  a  feeling  that  tempted  me  and 
teased  me  rose  up  to  meet  this  mystery.  I  was  con- 
stantly awaiting  the  solution  of  these  riddles,  and 
instinctively  fled  from  our  nurse  and  her  feathers, 
from  the  familiar,  lazy  whispering  of  the  apple  trees 
in  our  little  garden,  and  from  the  silly  knife-blows 
that  resounded  whenever  meat  was  being  chopped 
in  our  kitchen.  From  then  on  the  epithets  of  "street 
urchin"  and  "tramp"  were  added  to  my  other  un- 
flattering appellations.  But  I  paid  no  heed  to  this ; 


130  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

I  had  grown  accustomed  to  reproaches,  and  en- 
dured them  as  I  endured  sudden  downpours  of  rain 
and  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sun.  I  listened  scowling  to 
all  rebukes  and  went  my  own  way.  Wandering 
through  the  streets,  I  watched  the  life  of  the  town 
with  childishly  inquiring  eyes;  I  listened  to  the 
rumbling  of  the  wagons  on  the  highway  and  tried 
to  catch  the  echoes  of  great  far-away  cities,  either 
in  the  clatter  of  their  wheels  or  in  the  whispering 
of  the  wind  among  the  tall  Cossack  tombs  by  the 
roadside.  More  than  once  did  my  eyes  open  wide 
with  fear,  more  than  once  did  my  heart  stop  beat- 
ing at  the  panorama  of  life  unfolding  before  me, 
picture  after  picture,  impression  after  impression, 
each  leaving  a  vivid  imprint  on  my  heart.  I  saw 
and  knew  a  great  deal  that  children  much  older  than 
myself  ordinarily  never  see,  and  all  the  while  that  un- 
explained something  which  had  risen  from  the  depths 
of  my  childish  soul  called  to  me  as  before,  cease- 
less, mysterious,  vibrant. 

After  the  shrews  of  the  castle  had  deprived  the  old 
building  of  my  respect  and  admiration,  and  when 
every  corner  of  the  town  had  become  familiar  to 
me  down  to  the  last  filthy  alley,  then  I  began  to  turn 
my  eyes  into  the  distance,  toward  the  hill  on  which 
the  dissenting  chapel  stood.  At  first  I  approached 
it  from  one  side  and  then  from  another  like  a  timid 
animal,  not  daring  to  climb  a  hill  that  had  such  an 
evil  reputation.  But  as  I  gradually  grew  more  fa- 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  131 

miliar  with  the  place,  I  began  to  see  before  me  only 
peaceful  graves  and  fallen  crosses.  Nowhere  were 
there  any  visible  signs  of  life  or  of  the  presence  of 
human  beings.  It  lay  quiet,  deserted  and  alone. 
Only  the  chapel  frowned  at  me  with  its  empty  win- 
dows, as  if  absorbed  in  melancholy  meditation.  I 
longed  to  inspect  the  building  from  every  point  of 
view,  to  look  inside  it,  and  so  to  make  sure  that 
there  was  nothing  in  it  but  dust.  But  it  was  both 
terrifying  and  inconvenient  to  undertake  such  an 
expedition  alone,  and  so  I  enlisted  a  small  army  of 
three  scape-graces,  urchins  who  were  attracted  to 
the  adventure  by  the  promise  of  cakes  and  of  apples 
from  our  garden. 

IV 

I  MAKE  SOME  NEW  ACQUAINTANCES 

We  started  on  our  expedition  one  day  after  din- 
ner, and,  having  reached  the  hill,  began  climbing 
the  clay  landslides  that  had  been  torn  from  its  side 
by  grave  diggers  long  dead  and  by  the  freshets  of 
Spring.  These  landslides  had  stripped  the  hill- 
side bare,  and  here  and  there  white,  crumbling  bones 
protruded  through  the  clay.  In  one  place  the 
rotting  corner  of  a  coffin  jutted  out;  in  another  a 
human  skull  grinned  at  us,  fixing  us  with  its  dark, 
hollow  eyes. 


132  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

At  last,  lending  one  another  a  hand,  we  scrambled 
up  over  the  last  cliff  and  found  ourselves  on  the 
summit  of  the  hill.  The  sun  was  already  nearing 
the  horizon.  Its  slanting  rays  were  tenderly  gild- 
ing the  sward  of  the  old  cemetery,  playing  across 
its  ancient,  zig-zag  crosses,  and  streaming  through 
the  windows  of  the  chapel.  The  air  was  still,  and 
about  us  reigned  the  deep  peace  of  a  deserted 
burial  ground.  Here  we  no  longer  saw  skulls  and 
shank-bones  and  coffins.  A  soft,  gently  sloping 
carpet  of  fresh  green  grass  had  lovingly  concealed 
in  its  embrace  the  horror  and  ugliness  of  death. 

We  were  alone.  Only  the  sparrows  were  bustling 
merrily  about  us,  and  a  few  swallows  were  silently 
flying  in  and  out  of  the  windows  of  the  chapel  stand- 
ing disconsolately  among  its  grassy  graves,  mod- 
est crosses,  and  the  tumble-down  stone  sepulchres  on 
the  debris  of  which  gleamed  the  bright  faces  of 
butter-cups,  violets,  and  clover  blossoms. 

"No  one  is  here,"  said  one  of  my  companions. 

"The  sun  is  setting,"  added  another,  looking  at 
the  sun,  which,  although  it  had  not  yet  set,  was 
hanging  low  above  the  hill. 

The  doors  and  windows  were  boarded  up  for  some 
distance  above  the  ground,  but,  with  the  help  of  my 
companions,  I  had  hopes  of  scaling  them  and  peep- 
ing into  the  chapel. 

"Don't !"  cried  one  of  my  band,  suddenly  losing 
his  courage  and  seizing  my  arm. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  133 

"Get  away,  you  old  woman !"  the  oldest  of  our  lit- 
tle army  shouted  at  him,  deftly  offering  me  his  back. 

I  jumped  bravely  upon  it;  he  stood  up,  and  I 
found  myself  with  my  feet  on  his  shoulders.  In  this 
position  I  could  easily  reach  the  window-sill  with  my 
hand.  I  made  sure  of  its  strength,  and  then  pulled 
myself  up  and  sat  on  it. 

"Well,  what  do  you  see?"  the  boys  asked  from 
below,  with  lively  curiosity. 

I  was  silent.  By  peering  over  the  sill  I  could 
see  down  into  the  interior  of  the  chapel,  from  whence 
there  rose  to  meet  me  all  the  solemn  quiet  of  an 
abandoned  place  of  worship.  The  interior  of  the 
tall,  narrow  building  was  innocent  of  paint.  The 
evening  sunlight  was  streaming  unobstructed  through 
the  open  windows,  staining  the  peeling  walls  a  bril- 
liant gold.  I  saw  the  inside  of  the  closed  door, 
the  crumbling  gallery,  the  ancient  tottering  columns. 
The  distance  from  the  window  to  the  floor  appeared 
much  greater  than  from  the  window  to  the  grass  out- 
side. I  seemed  to  be  looking  down  into  a  deep  abyss, 
and  at  first  I  could  not  make  out  what  certain 
strange  objects  were  whose  fantastic  forms  were 
resting  upon  the  floor. 

Meanwhile  my  friends  were  growing  weary  of 
standing  below  waiting  for  me  to  give  them  news, 
and  one  of  them  climbed  up  by  the  same  method 
that  I  had  employed,  and  took  his  seat  beside  me, 
holding  on  to  the  window  frame. 


134  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"That's  the  altar,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  one 
of  the  strange  objects  on  the  floor. 

"And  that's  the  lustre." 

"And  that's  the  little  table  for  the  Bible." 

"Yes,  but  what's  that?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  the 
dark  shape  that  lay  beside  the  altar. 

"That's  a  priest's  hat." 

"No,  it's  a  bucket." 

"What  would  they  have  used  a  bucket  for?" 

"To  carry  coals  for  the  incense." 

"No,  it  certainly  is  a  hat.  Anyhow,  we  can  find 
out!"  I  cried.  "Here,  let's  tie  your  belt  to  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  you  can  let  yourself  down  by  it !" 

"I  like  that !    Let  yourself  down  if  you  want  to !" 

"Do  you  think  I  wouldn't  go?" 

"Go  on  then!" 

Acting  on  impulse  I  tied  the  two  belts  together, 
slipped  them  under  the  window-sill,  and,  giving  one 
end  to  my  companion,  let  myself  down  by  the  other. 
I  trembled  as  my  feet  touched  the  floor,  but  a  glance 
at  my  friend's  face  bending  sympathetically  over  me 
reassured  me.  The  sound  of  my  heels  rang  out  under 
the  ceiling,  resounding  in  the  chapel's  void,  and 
echoing  among  its  dark  corners.  A  few  sparrows 
started  up  from  their  roosts  in  the  gallery  and  flut- 
tered out  through  a  large  hole  in  the  roof.  All  at 
once  I  caught  sight  of  a  stern,  bearded  face  under  a 
crown  of  thorns  looking  down  at  me  from  over  the 
window  in  which  we  had  been  sitting.  It  was  an 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  135 

immense  crucifix  leaning  out  from  high  up  under 
the  rafters. 

I  was  seized  with  dread.  My  companion's  eyes 
sparkled,  and  he  held  his  breath  with  curiosity  and 
sympathy. 

"Are  you  going  any  farther?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  in  the  same  tone,  summoning 
all  my  courage,  but  at  that  instant  something  totally 
unexpected  happened.  First,  we  heard  the  rattle 
of  plaster  falling  in  the  gallery.  Then  something 
moved  overhead,  stirring  up  clouds  of  dust,  and  a  big 
grey  mass  flapped  its  wings  and  rose  to  the  hole  in 
the  roof.  The  chapel  was  darkened  in  a  moment. 
A  huge  old  owl,  frightened  out  of  a  dark  corner  by 
our  noise,  hung  poised  for  a  moment  in  the  aperture 
with  outstretched  wings,  and  then  sailed  away. 

A  wave  of  shuddering  fear  passed  over  me. 

"Pull  me  up !"  I  cried  to  my  playmate,  and  seized 
the  strap. 

"Don't  be  frightened !"  he  answered  soothingly  and 
prepared  to  pull  me  up  into  the  sunshine  and  the 
light  of  day. 

But  all  at  once  I  saw  his  face  become  distorted 
with  alarm.  He  screamed,  jumped  down  from  the 
window-sill,  and  vanished  in  an  instant.  I  instinc- 
tively looked  behind  me,  and  caught  sight  of  a 
strange  apparition  which  filled  me,  however,  more 
with  surprise  than  terror. 


136  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

The  dark  object  that  had  been  the  subject  of  our 
dispute,  and  that  had  first  looked  like  a  bucket,  then 
like  a  hat,  and  then  at  last  like  a  kettle,  suddenly 
flashed  across  my  vision  and  vanished  behind  the 
altar.  All  I  could  distinguish  was  the  dim  outline 
of  a  small,  what  seemed  to  be  a  child's,  hand,  beckon- 
ing the  object  into  its  hiding  place. 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  my  sensations  at  that 
moment.  They  were  not  painful,  the  feeling  that 
overcame  me  could  not  even  be  called  fear.  I  seemed 
to  be  in  another  world.  From  somewhere,  as  if 
from  the  world  that  I  had  left,  there  came  to  me, 
a  few  seconds  later,  the  swift  frightened  pattering  of 
three  pairs  of  children's  feet.  This  sound  soon  died 
away,  and  I  was  left  alone  in  that  tomb-like  place, 
in  the  presence  of  an  apparition  inexplicable  and 
strange. 

Time  ceased  to  exist  for  me,  therefore  I  cannot 
say  whether  it  was  soon  or  not  before  I  was  aware 
of  suppressed  whispering  under  the  altar. 

"Why  doesn't  he  climb  up  again?" 

"You  can  see,  he's  frightened." 

The  first  voice  seemed  to  be  that  of  a  very  little 
child,  the  second  might  have  belonged  to  a  boy  of 
my  own  age.  I  seemed  to  see,  too,  a  pair  of  black 
eyes  shining  through  the  chinks  in  the  old  altar. 

"What's  he  going  to  do  now?"  the  whisper  recom- 
menced. 

"Wait  and  see,"  answered  the  older  voice. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  137 

Something  moved  so  violently  under  the  altar  that 
the  structure  trembled,  and  a  little  figure  emerged 
from  underneath  it. 

It  was  a  boy  of  nine,  taller  than  I  was,  thin  and 
slight  as  a  reed.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dirty  shirt, 
and  his  hands  were  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  a  pair 
of  short,  tight  breeches.  His  black  hair  hung  in 
shaggy  elf-locks  over  his  dark,  pensive  eyes. 

Although  he  was  a  stranger  and  had  appeared  on 
the  scene  in  such  an  unusual  and  unexpected  man- 
ner, and  although  he  was  approaching  me  with  that 
infinitely  provocative  look  with  which  boys  always 
met  each  other  among  our  bazaars  when  they  were 
preparing  for  a  fight,  I  nevertheless  felt  very  much 
braver  than  I  had  before.  My  courage  increased 
when  there  appeared  from  under  the  altar,  or  rather 
from  a  trap-door  in  the  floor  which  was  concealed  by 
the  altar,  another  grimy  little  face  framed  in  golden 
curls,  and  a  pair  of  bright  blue  eyes  fixed  on  me 
full  of  childish  curiosity. 

I  moved  slightly  away  from  the  wall  and  also  put 
my  hands  into  my  pockets  according  to  the  rules  of 
our  bazaars.  This  was  a  sign  that  I  was  not  afraid 
of  my  adversary  and  even  partly  wished  to  hint  at 
my  contempt  for  him. 

We  stood  face  to  face,  measuring  each  other  with 
our  eyes.  Having  stared  at  me  from  head  to  foot, 
the  boy  asked : 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 


138  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"Nothing,"  I  answered.  "What  business  is  it  of 
yours  ?" 

My  adversary  jerked  his  shoulder  as  if  he  in- 
tended to  take  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket  and  strike 
me.  I  did  not  blink. 

"I'll  show  you !"  he  threatened. 

I  stuck  out  my  chest. 

"Hit  me!     Try!" 

The  moment  was  crucial.  On  it  depended  the 
character  of  our  future  relationship.  I  waited,  but 
my  opponent  continued  to  fix  me  with  the  same 
scrutinising  gaze  and  did  not  move. 

"I'll  hit — too —  '  I  said,  but  more  peaceably 
this  time. 

Meanwhile  the  little  girl,  with  her  tiny  hands  rest- 
ing on  the  floor  of  the  chapel,  was  trying  to  scramble 
up  out  of  the  trap-door.  She  fell  down,  got  up 
again,  and  at  last  came  tottering  with  uncertain 
steps  toward  the  boy.  Having  reached  him,  she 
seized  him  and  nestled  closely  to  him,  at  the  same 
time  fixing  eyes  of  wonder  and  fear  upon  my  face. 

This  decided  the  affair.  It  was  obvious  that  the 
boy  could  not  fight  under  conditions  such  as  these. 
Of  course  I  was  too  generous  to  take  advantage  of 
the  awkward  situation  he  was  in. 

"What's  your  name?"  asked  the  boy,  stroking 
the  little  girl's  fair  curls. 

"Vasia.     What's  yours?" 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  139 

"Mine's  Valek.  I  know  you.  You  live  in  the 
garden  near  the  pond.  You  have  big  apples." 

"Yes,  our  apples  are  fine.     Don't  you  want  some?" 

Taking  out  of  my  pocket  two  apples  that  had 
been  intended  as  payment  for  my  shamefully  fugitive 
band,  I  gave  one  to  Valek  and  held  out  the  other 
to  the  little  girl.  But  she  only  hid  her  face  and 
pressed  closer  to  Valek. 

"She's  frightened,"  he  said,  and  handed  the  apple 
to  the  child  himself. 

"What  did  you  come  down  here  for?"  he  asked 
next.  "Did  I  ever  come  into  your  garden?" 

"You  can  come  if  you  want  to.  I  wish  you  would !" 
I  answered  joyfully. 

Valek  was  taken  back. 

"I  can't  play  with  you,"  he  answered  sadly. 

"Why  not?"  I  asked,  deeply  grieved  by  the  sor- 
rowful voice  in  which  he  had  spoken  these  words. 

"Your  father  is  a  judge." 

"Well,  what  if  he  is?"  I  asked  with  candid  amaze- 
ment. "You'd  play  with  me,  not  with  my  father!" 

Valek  shook  his  head. 

"Tiburtsi  wouldn't  let  me."  And  as  if  the  name 
had  reminded  him  of  something,  he  suddenly  recol- 
lected himself  and  went  on :  "Look  here,  you're  a  fine 
boy,  but  you'd  better  go.  If  Tiburtsi  should  find 
you  here  it  would  be  awful." 

I  agreed  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  go.  The  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  already  fading  behind 


140  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

the  windows  of  the  chapel,  and  the  town  was  some 
distance  away. 

"How  can  I  get  out  of  here?" 

"I'll  show  you.     We'll  go  out  together." 

"And  what  about  her?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  the 
little  girl. 

"What,  Marusia?    She'll  come  with  us." 

"How?    Through  the  window?" 

Valek  reflected  a  moment. 

"I'll  tell  you  what ;  I'll  help  you  to  climb  through 
the  window  and  we'll  go  out  another  way." 

With  the  help  of  my  new  friend  I  climbed  up  to 
the  window-sill.  Untying  the  belt,  I  slipped  it 
around  the  sill,  seized  both  ends,  and  swung  myself 
into  the  air.  Then,  releasing  one  end,  I  dropped 
to  the  ground  and  jerked  down  the  belt.  Valek  and 
Marusia  were  already  waiting  for  me  outside,  at 
the  foot  of  the  wall. 

The  sun  had  just  set  behind  the  hill.  The  town 
was  sunk  in  purple  mist,  only  the  tall  poplars  on 
the  island,  stained  by  the  last  glow  of  the  sunset, 
stood  out  sharply  defined  in  pure  gold.  I  felt  as  if 
I  had  been  in  the  old  cemetery  for  a  day  and  a  night ; 
it  was  as  if  I  had  come  there  the  day  before. 

"It's  lovely  here !"  I  exclaimed,  struck  by  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  evening  and  filling  my  lungs  with  the 
cool,  damp  air. 

"It's  lonely  here,"  said  Valek  sadly. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  141 

"Do  you  live  here?"  I  asked,  as  the  three  of  us 
began  to  descend  the  hill. 

"Yes." 

"Where's  jour  house?" 

I  couldn't  imagine  that  children  like  myself  could 
live  without  a  house. 

Valek  smiled  in  his  habitual  sad  way  and  did  not 
answer. 

We  avoided  the  steep  landslides,  for  Valek  knew  a 
better  path.  Pushing  through  the  reeds  of  a  dry 
marsh  and  crossing  a  couple  of  little  streams  on 
narrow  planks,  we  found  ourselves  on  a  flat  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Here  we  were  forced  to  take  leave  of  one  an- 
other. I  pressed  my  new  friend's  hand  and  then 
held  out  mine  to  the  little  girl.  She  gave  me  her 
tiny  paw  affectionately  and,  looking  up  at  me  with 
her  blue  eyes,  asked: 

"Will  you  come  again?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.     "I'll  surely  come !" 

"All  right,"  said  Valek  thoughtfully.  "You  might 
as  well  come,  but  only  when  our  people  are  in  town." 

"Who  are  your  people?" 

"Why  our  people:  all  of  them,  Tiburtsi  and  Lav- 
rovski  and  Turkevich  and  the  Professor — but  per- 
haps he  wouldn't  matter." 

"All  right,  I'll  watch  for  them,  and  when  they're 
in  town,  I'll  come.  Good-bye !" 

"Hi !    Listen !"  Valek  called  after  me  when  I  had 


142  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

gone  a  few  steps.  "You  won't  tell  any  one  you've 
been  here  with  us,  will  you?" 

"No,  not  a  soul!"  I  answered  firmly. 

"That's  good.  And  when  those  idiots  of  yours  ask 
you  what  you  saw  say  the  Devil." 

"All  right.    I'll  say  that." 

"Good-bye,  then !" 

"Good-bye!" 

The  thick  shades  of  night  were  descending  on 
Kniazh  Gorodok  as  I  approached  our  garden  wall. 
A  slender  crescent  moon  was  hanging  over  the  castle 
and  the  sky  was  bright  with  stars.  I  was  about  to 
climb  the  wall  when  some  one  seized  my  arm. 

"Vasia!"  my  runaway  friend  burst  out  in  an  ex- 
cited whisper.  "Is  that  you?" 

"You  know  it  is.    And  so  you  all  ran  away !" 

He  hung  his  head,  but  curiosity  got  the  better  of 
his  confusion  and  he  asked  again: 

"What  did  you  see  there?" 

"What  do  you  think  I  saw?"  I  answered  in  a 
voice  that  would  not  admit  of  a  doubt ;  "devils,  of 
course.  And  you  are  all  cowards !" 

Pushing  my  abashed  companion  aside,  I  climbed 
over  the  wall. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  I  had  sunk  into  a  profound 
slumber,  and  was  dreaming  that  I  was  watching  real 
little  devils  merrily  hopping  up  out  of  the  hole  in 
the  chapel  floor.  Valek  was  chasing  them  about 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  143 

with  a  birch  twig,  and  Marusia,  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  pleasure,  was  laughing  and  clapping  her  hands. 


MY  ACQUAINTANCESHIP  IS  CONTINUED 

From  thenceforth  I  became  entirely  absorbed  in 
my  new  acquaintances.  At  night  as  I  went  to  bed 
and  on  rising  in  the  morning  I  thought  of  nothing 
but  my  coming  visit  to  the  hill.  I  now  wandered 
about  the  streets  for  the  sole  purpose  of  ascertain- 
ing whether  the  whole  assemblage  of  what  Yanush 
called  the  "bad  company"  was  there  or  not.  If 
Lavrovski  was  sprawling  in  the  meadow  and  Turke- 
vich  and  Tiburtsi  were  holding  forth  to  their  audi- 
ences, and  if  the  rest  of  the  suspicious  characters 
were  poking  about  the  bazaar,  I  immediately  ran 
off  across  the  marsh  and  up  the  hill  to  the  chapel, 
having  first  filled  my  pockets  with  apples,  which  I 
was  allowed  to  pick  in  our  garden,  and  with  sweet- 
meats, which  I  always  saved  up  for  my  new  friends. 

Valek,  who  was  very  serious,  and  whose  grown-up 
ways  inspired  me  with  respect,  would  quietly  accept 
these  gifts  and  generally  put  them  aside  for  his 
sister,  but  Marusia  would  clap  her  hands  and  her 
eyes  would  sparkle  with  unaffected  pleasure.  The 
child's  pale  cheeks  would  glow  with  rosy  colour  and 


144  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

she  would  laugh,  and  this  laugh  of  our  little  friend's 
always  went  straight  to  our  hearts  and  rewarded  us 
for  the  sweets  we  had  sacrificed  for  her  sake. 

This  pale,  diminutive  little  creature  reminded  one 
of  a  flower  that  had  blossomed  without  seeing  the 
life-giving  rays  of  the  sun.  Although  she  was  four 
years  old,  she  still  walked  weakly  on  her  crooked 
little  legs,  swaying  like  a  grass-blade  as  she  moved. 
Her  hands  were  transparent  and  thin,  and  her  head 
nodded  on  her  neck  like  a  bluebell  on  its  stalk,  but 
her  glance  was,  at  times,  so  unchildlike  and  sad,  and 
her  smile  reminded  me  so  of  my  mother's  during 
her  last  days  as  she  had  sat  at  her  open  window 
with  the  breeze  stirring  her  hair,  that  I  would  often 
grow  sad  myself  at  the  sight  of  her  little  babyish 
face,  and  the  tears  would  rise  in  my  eyes. 

I  could  not  help  comparing  her  to  my  sister  who 
was  the  same  age ;  the  latter  was  as  round  as  a 
dumpling  and  as  buoyant  as  a  rubber  ball.  Sonia 
ran  so  merrily  when  she  was  playing  and  laughed 
so  ringingly,  she  wore  such  pretty  dresses,  and  every 
day  her  nurse  would  braid  a  crimson  ribbon  into 
her  dark  hair. 

But  my  little  friend  hardly  ever  ran  and  very 
seldom  laughed ;  when  she  did  her  laughter  sounded 
like  the  tiniest  of  silver  bell,s  that  ten  steps  away  is 
scarcely  audible.  Her  dress  was  dirty  and  old,  no 
ribbon  decked  her  hair,  which  was  much  longer  and 
thicker  than  Sonia's.  To  my  surprise,  Valck  knew 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  145 

how  to  braid  it  very  cleverly,  and  this  he  would  do 
every  morning. 

I  was  a  great  madcap.  People  used  to  say  of  me : 
"That  boy's  hands  and  feet  are  full  of  quicksilver." 
I  believed  this  myself,  although  I  could  not  under- 
stand how  and  by  whom  the  quicksilver  could  have 
been  inserted.  During  the  first  days  of  our  friend- 
ship I  brought  my  high  spirits  into  the  company  of 
my  new  companions,  and  I  doubt  if  the  echoes  of  the 
old  chapel  had  ever  repeated  such  deafening  shrieks 
as  they  did  whilst  I  was  trying  to  TOUSC  and  amuse 
Valek  and  Marusia  with  my  pranks.  But  in  spite 
of  them  all  I  did  not  succeed.  Valek  would  gaze  seri- 
ously first  at  me  and  then  at  the  little  girl,  and 
once  when  I  was  making  her  run  a  race  with  me, 
he  said : 

"Don't  do  that,  you'll  make  her  cry." 

And  in  fact,  when  I  had  teased  Marusia  into  run- 
ning, and  when  she  heard  my  steps  behind  her,  she 
suddenly  turned  round,  raised  her  arms  above  her 
head  as  if  to  protect  herself,  looked  at  me  with  the 
helpless  eyes  of  a  trapped  bird,  and  burst  into  tears. 
I  was  touched  to  the  quick. 

"There,  you  see,"  said  Valek.  ''She  doesn't  like 
to  play."  „ 

He  seated  her  on  the  grass  and  began  picking  flow- 
ers and  tossing  them  to  her.  She  stopped  crying  and 
began  quietly  to  pick  up  the  blossoms,  whispering 
something  to  the  golden  buttercups  and  raising  the 


146  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

blue-bells  to  her  lips.  I  grew  quiet  too,  and  lay 
down  beside  Valek  and  the  little  girl. 

"Why  is  she  like  that?"  I  finally  asked,  motioning 
with  my  eyes  toward  Marusia. 

"Why  is  she  so  quiet,  you  mean?"  asked  Valek. 
And  then  in  a  tone  of  absolute  conviction,  he  con- 
tinued :  "You  see,  it  is  the  grey  stone." 

"Yes,"  the  child  repeated  like  a  feeble  echo.  "It 
is  the  grey  stone." 

"Which  grey  stone?"  I  asked,  not  understanding 
what  they  meant. 

"The  grey  stone  has  sucked  her  life  away,"  Valek 
explained,  gazing  at  the  sky  as  before.  "Tiburtsi 
says  so.  Tiburtsi  knows." 

"Yes,"  the  child  once  more  echoed  softly.  "Ti- 
burtsi knows  everything." 

I  understood  nothing  of  the  puzzling  words  which 
Valek  had  repeated  after  Tiburtsi,  but  the  argument 
that  Tiburtsi  knew  everything  had  its  effect  on  me. 
I  raised  myself  on  one  elbow  and  looked  at  Marusia. 
She  was  sitting  in  the  same  position  in  which  Valek 
had  placed  her,  and  was  still  picking  up  the  scat- 
tered flowers.  The  movements  of  her  thin  hands 
were  slow,  her  eyes  were  like  blue  bruises  in  her 
pale  face,  and  her  long  lashes  were  downcast.  As  I 
looked  at  that  wee,  pathetic  figure  I  realised  that  in 
Tiburtsi's  words,  although  I  could  not  understand 
them,  there  lay  a  bitter  truth.  Something  was  surely 
sucking  away  the  life  of  this  strange  child  that  wept 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  147 

when  other  children  would  have  laughed.  But  how 
could  a  grey  stone  do  this  thing? 

There  was  a  riddle  more  dreadful  to  me  than  all 
the  ghosts  in  the  old  castle.  Let  the  Turks  pin- 
ing under  ground  be  never  so  terrible  and  the  old 
count  never  so  cruel,  they  all  smacked  of  the  fan- 
tastic horror  of  ancient  legends.  But  here  was  some- 
thing incredibly  dreadful  taking  place  under  my  very 
eyes.  Something  formless,  pitiless,  cruel,  and  heavy 
as  a  stone  was  hanging  over  this  little  being's  head, 
draining  the  colour  from  her  cheeks,  the  brightness 
from  her  eyes,  and  the  life  out  of  her  limbs.  "It 
must  be  done  at  night,"  I  thought,  and  something 
wrung  my  heart  until  it  ached. 

I,  too,  subdued  my  boisterous  ways  under  the  in- 
fluence of  this  feeling.  Suiting  our  actions  to  our 
little  lady's  quiet  gravity,  Valek  and  I  would  put 
her  down  somewhere  upon  the  grass  and  collect  flow- 
ers and  little  bright-hued  pebbles  for  her,  or  else  we 
would  catch  butterflies,  or  make  her  sparrow  traps 
of  bricks.  Sometimes,  stretched  beside  her  on  the 
grass,  we  would  He  gazing  at  the  sky  and,  as  we 
watched  the  clouds  sailing  high  above  the  chapel's 
crumbling  roof,  we  would  tell  Marusia  stories  or 
talk  with  one  another. 

These  conversations  cemented  the  friendship  be- 
tween Valek  and  me  more  firmly  every  day,  and  it 
grew  steadily  in  spite  of  the  sharp  contrast  that 
our  characters  presented.  He  opposed  a  sorrow- 


148  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

ful  gravity  to  my  impulsive  high  spirits  and  won 
my  respect  by  the  masterly,  independent  way  in 
which  he  spoke  of  grown-up  people.  He  also  told 
me  much  that  was  new  to  me,  things  of  which  I  had 
never  thought  before.  Noticing  that  he  spoke  of 
Tiburtsi  as  of  a  comrade  I  asked : 

"Is  Tiburtsi  your  father?" 

"He  must  be,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  as  if  the 
question  had  never  before  occurred  to  him. 

"Does  he  love  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  much  more  decidedly  this  time. 
"He  is  always  doing  things  for  me,  and  sometimes, 
you  know,  he  kisses  me  and  cries." 

"He  loves  me  and  cries  too !"  Marusia  chimed  in, 
with  a  look  of  childish  pride. 

"My  father  doesn't  love  me,"  I  said  sadly.  "He 
never  kisses  me.  He  is  a  horrid  man." 

"No,  no,"  Valek  objected.  "You  don't  under- 
stand. Tiburtsi  says  he  isn't.  He  says  the  Judge  is 
the  best  man  in  the  town,  and  that  the  town  would 
have  been  ruined  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for 
your  father  and  the  Priest  who  has  just  gone  into 
a  monastery,  and  the  Jewish  Rabbi.  Those  three — 

"What  have  those  three  done?" 

"The  town  hasn't  been  ruined  because  they  were 
there,  so  Tiburtsi  says,  because  they  look  after  the 
poor  people.  Your  father,  you  know,  once  sentenced 
a  count  to  punishment." 

"Yes,  that's  so.    The  count  was  very  angry." 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  149 

"There,  you  see!  It's  no  joke  to  sentence  a 
count." 

"Why?" 

"Why?"  Valek  repeated.  "Because  a  count  isn't 
an  ordinary  person.  A  count  does  what  he  pleases 
and  drives  in  a  coach,  and  then  that  count  had 
money.  He  would  have  given  money  to  any  other 
judge,  and  the  judge  would  have  let  him  go  and 
condemned  a  poor  man." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  I  heard  the  count  shouting  in 
our  house :  'I  can  buy  and  sell  every  one  of  you !' ' 

"And  what  did  the  Judge  say?" 

"My  father  said :   'Get  out  of  my  sight !'  " 

"There,  now,  you  see !  And  Tiburtsi  says  he  isn't 
afraid  to  drive  a  rich  man  away,  but  when  old 
Ivanovna  came  to  him  with  her  rheumatism  he  had 
a  chair  brought  for  her.  He's  like  that!  Even 
Turkevich  has  never  raised  a  rumpus  under  his 
windows." 

That  was  true ;  when  he  was  on  his  denunciatory 
expeditions  Turkevich  always  passed  by  our  windows 
in  silence,  and  sometimes  even  took  off  his  cap. 

All  this  set  me  thinking  deeply.  Valek  was  show- 
ing me  my  father  in  a  light  in  which  I  had  never 
before  seen  him,  and  the  boy's  words  touched 
chords  of  filial  pride  in  my  heart.  I  was  pleased 
to  hear  these  praises  of  my  father  coming  from  Ti- 
burtsi who  "knew  everything,"  but  there  still  quiv- 
ered in  my  breast,  with  a  pang  of  aching  love,  the  bit- 


150  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

ter  certainty  that  this  man  never  could  and  never 
would  love  me  as  Tiburtsi  loved  his  children. 


VI 

AMONG  THE  "GREY  STONES" 

Several  days  passed.  The  "bad  company"  ceased 
to  appear  in  town,  and  I  wandered  through  the  streets 
in  vain,  feeling  sad  and  lonely,  waiting  for  them  to 
return  so  that  I  might  hasten  to  the  hill. 

Only  the  Professor  came  down  once  with  his  sleepy 
walk;  neither  Tiburtsi  nor  Turkevich  appeared.  I 
was  thoroughly  unhappy,  for  not  to  see  Valek  and 
Marusia  had  come  to  be  a  great  loss  to  me.  But 
one  day  as  I  was  walking  down  the  street  with 
hanging  head  Valek  suddenly  laid  his  hand  upon  my 
shoulder. 

"Why  don't  you  come  to  see  us  any  more?"  he 
asked. 

"I'm  afraid  to — I  haven't  seen  your  people  in 
town." 

"O — oh — and  I  never  thought  of  telling  you !  Our 
people  aren't  at  home ;  you  can  come.  And  I  thought 
it  was  something  else  !" 

"What?" 

"I  thought  you  were  tired  of  coming." 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  151 

"No,  no!  I'm  coming  at  once;  I  even  have  the 
apples  here  with  me." 

At  mention  of  the  apples  Valek  suddenly  turned 
toward  me  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  something, 
but  nothing  came,  and  he  only  gave  me  an  odd 
look. 

"No  matter,  no  matter,"  he  dismissed  the  ques- 
tion, seeing  that  I  was  looking  expectantly  at  him. 
"Go  along  up  the  hill;  I  have  something  to  do;  I'll 
catch  you  up  on  the  way." 

I  walked  along,  glancing  back  frequently,  expect- 
ing to  be  overtaken  by  Valek,  but  I  had  climbed  the 
hill  and  reached  the  chapel  before  he  had  appeared. 
I  stopped  in  doubt  as  to  what  I  ought  to  do.  Be- 
fore me  lay  the  graveyard,  desolate  and  hushed, 
without  the  faintest  sign  of  human  habitation.  Only 
sparrows  were  twittering  in  the  sunshine,  and  a 
thicket  of  wild  cherry  trees,  honeysuckle,  and  lilac 
bushes  that  nestled  close  up  under  the  southern  wall 
of  the  chapel  was  softly  whispering  something  with 
its  dark,  dense  foliage. 

I  looked  about.  Where  should  I  go  next?  Clearly, 
the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  wait  for  Valek.  So  I 
began  to  wander  among  the  graves,  idly  trying  to 
decipher  the  epitaphs  on  the  mossy  tombstones.  As 
I  was  roaming  thus  from  grave  to  grave,  I  sud- 
denly stumbled  upon  a  large,  half-ruined  vault.  The 
roof  of  this  vault  had  been  taken  off  or  else  had  been 
torn  away  by  storms,  and  was  lying  close  at  hand. 


152  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

The  door  was  boarded  up.  Out  of  curiosity  I 
propped  an  old  cross  against  the  wall,  climbed  up, 
and  peered  into  the  vault.  It  was  empty,  but  a 
window  with  glass  panes  had  been  let  into  the  centre 
of  the  floor,  and  under  these  panes  there  gaped  the 
black  void  of  a  subterranean  chamber. 

While  I  was  looking  into  this  tomb  and  marvelling 
at  the  strange  situation  of  the  window,  Valek  came 
running,  panting  and  tired,  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  He 
was  carrying  a  large  loaf  of  Jewish  bread  in  his 
arms,  something  was  sticking  out  from  under  his 
coat,  and  the  perspiration  was  streaming  down  his 
face. 

"Oh !"  he  cried  at  sight  of  me.  "There  you  are ! 
If  Tiburtsi  should  find  you  here,  how  angry  he  would 
be !  But  it's  too  late  to  do  anything  now.  I  know 
you're  all  right  and  won't  tell  any  one  where  we 
live.  Let's  go  in  !" 

"Go  in  where?     Is   it  far?" 

"You'll  see.     Follow  me." 

He  pushed  aside  the  twigs  of  the  honeysuckle  and 
lilac  bushes  and  disappeared  into  the  thicket  beneath 
the  chapel  wall.  I  followed  him,  and  found  myself 
on  a  small  trampled  patch  of  earth  which  had  been 
entirely  concealed  from  me  before  by  foliage.  Be- 
tween the  stems  of  the  cherry  trees  I  saw  a  fairly 
large  opening  from  which  a  flight  of  earthen  steps 
led  downward.  Valek  started  down,  bidding  me  fol- 
low him,  and  in  a  few  seconds  we  found  ourselves  in 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  153 

darkness  underground.  Valek  took  my  hand  and 
led  me  through  a  narrow,  damp  passage,  until,  turn- 
ing sharply  to  the  right,  we  emerged  into  a  spacious 
crypt. 

I  stopped  at  the  entrance,  amazed  at  this  unex- 
pected sight.  Two  beams  of  light  fell  sharply  from 
overhead,  painting  two  luminous  bands  across  the 
darkness  of  the  crypt.  This  light  came  from  a 
couple  of  windows,  one  of  which  I  had  seen  in  the 
floor  of  the  vault,  and  another,  which  lay  beyond  and 
which  had  evidently  been  constructed  in  the  same 
way  as  the  first.  The  rays  of  the  sun  did  not  fall 
directly  upon  these  windows,  but  were  reflected  into 
them  from  the  walls  of  the  two  old  vaults.  This  light 
was  diffused  in  the  grey  air  underground,  and  fell 
upon  the  flag-stone  floor,  from  which  it  was  reflected 
once  more,  filling  the  crypt  with  a  dusky  shimmer. 
The  walls  were  also  of  stone,  and  massive,  thick  col- 
umns, rising  ponderously  from  the  floor,  spread  their 
stone  arches  in  all  directions  and  at  last  firmly 
clasped  the  vaulted  roof  above. 

Two  figures  were  sitting  in  a  patch  of  light  on  the 
floor.  The  old  Professor,  with  bowed  head  and 
muttering  something  to  himself,  was  cobbling  his 
rags  together  with  a  needle.  He  did  not  even  look 
up  as  we  entered  the  crypt,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  slight  movement  of  his  hands,  his  grey  figure 
might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  some  grotesque 
piece  of  stone  carving. 


154  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

Under  the  other  window  sat  Marusia  by  a  little 
heap  of  flowers,  sorting  them  over,  as  her  custom 
was.  A  beam  of  light  fell  on  her  fair  curls,  bath- 
ing her  in  radiance  from  head  to  foot,  but  in  spite 
of  this  she  stood  out  a  strange  little  misty  speck 
against  the  grey  stone  background,  looking  as  if 
she  might  melt  and  vanish  at  any  moment.  When- 
ever a  cloud  passed  over  the  earth,  dimming  the 
sun's  brightness,  this  background  seemed  to  slip 
away  and  disappear,  swallowed  up  in  darkness,  but 
when  the  sun  shone  out  anew,  the  cold,  cruel  stones 
stood  out  once  more,  clasping  each  other  above  the 
tiny  figure  of  the  child  in  an  indissoluble  embrace. 
I  involuntarily  remembered  Valek's  saying  about  the 
"grey  stone"  that  was  draining  Marusia's  merri- 
ment away,  and  a  feeling  of  superstitious  fear  came 
stealing  into  my  heart.  I  seemed  to  be  aware  of 
an  invisible  but  terrible  stony  stare  directed  at  her, 
rapacious  and  intent ;  I  felt  that  the  crypt  was  keenly 
eyeing  its  prey. 

"Valek !"  lisped  Marusia  gaily,  as  she  caught  sight 
of  her  brother.  When  she  saw  me  with  him  a  faint 
light  shone  in  her  eyes. 

I  gave  her  the  apples  I  had  brought,  and  Valek, 
breaking  the  loaf  in  two,  gave  her  a  piece  and  handed 
the  rest  to  the  Professor.  That  unhappy  man  of 
learning  accepted  the  gift  indifferently,  and  began 
munching  without  tearing  himself  away  from  his 
occupation.  I  shivered  and  moved  uneasily,  stifled, 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  155 

as  it  were,  by  the  oppressive  "stare"  of  those  grey 
stones. 

"Come !  Come  away  from  here —  '  I  insisted, 
plucking  at  Valek's  sleeve.  "Take  her  away !" 

"Come,  Marusia,  let's  go  upstairs,"  Valek  called 
to  his  sister. 

And  the  three  of  us  climbed  up  out  of  the  crypt, 
but  even  out  of  doors  I  felt  a  sense  of  restlessness 
and  strain.  Valek  was  sadder  and  more  silent  than 
usual. 

"Did  you  stay  in  town  to  buy  that  bread?"  I  asked. 

"To  buy  it  ?"  laughed  Valek.  "Where  would  I  find 
the  money?" 

"How  did  you  get  it  then?    Did  you  ask  for  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  likely!  Who  would  give  it  to  me? 
No,  brother,  I  nabbed  it  from  Sarah  the  Jewess' 
bread-tray  at  the  bazaar.  She  didn't  see  me." 

He  said  this  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  sprawling 
on  the  grass  with  his  hands  under  his  head.  I  raised 
myself  on  my  elbow  and  stared  at  him. 

"So  you  stole  it?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

I  threw  myself  back  on  the  grass  and  we  lay  for 
a  minute  in  silence. 

"It's  wicked  to  steal !"  I  burst  out,  full  of  the  sad- 
dest perplexity. 

"Our  people  were  all  away.  Marusia  was  crying 
because  she  was  hungry." 


156  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"Yes,  I  was  hungry,"  repeated  the  child  with  piti- 
ful simplicity. 

I  had  not  yet  discovered  what  hunger  was,  but  at 
the  little  one's  last  words  my  breast  heaved  and  I 
stared  at  my  friends  as  if  I  were  seeing  them  for  the 
first  time.  Valek  was  lying  on  the  grass  as  before, 
pensively  watching  a  soaring  sparrow-hawk,  but  he 
now  no  longer  looked  impressive.  At  the  sight  of 
Marusia  holding  her  piece  of  bread  in  both  hands 
my  heart  absolutely  stopped  beating. 

"Why"— I  asked  with  an  effort— "Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  this  before?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  then  I  changed  my 
mind.  You  have  no  money  of  your  own." 

"Well,  what  difference  does  that  make?  I  should 
have  brought  a  loaf  from  home." 

"What,  on  the  sly?" 

"Ycs-cs " 

"Then  you  would  have  stolen  it  too." 

"I — it  would  have  been  from  my  father." 

"That's  worse!"  said  Valek  decidedly.  "I  never 
rob  my  father." 

"Well,  then,  I  should  have  asked  for  it.  He  would 
have  given  it  to  me." 

"Oil,  he  might  have  given  it  to  you  once — but 
how  could  he  provide  for  all  the  beggars  in  town?" 

"Are  you — beggars?"  I  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  we  are  beggars,"  answered  Valek  bluntly 
and  gruffly. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  157 

I  said  nothing,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  rose  to  go. 

"Are  you  going  away  already?"  asked  Valek. 

"Yes." 

I  was  going  because  I  could  not,  that  day,  play 
tranquilly  with  my  friends  as  before.  The  pure, 
childish  affection  I  had  felt  for  them  was  sullied. 
Although  the  love  I  bore  Valek  and  Marusia  was 
not  diminished,  there  was  now  mingled  with  it  a  sharp 
current  of  pity  that  turned  it  to  a  burning  heart- 
ache. On  reaching  home  I  went  to  bed  early  because 
I  did  not  know  where  to  lay  this  new  feeling  of  pain 
with  which  my  whole,  soul  was  burning.  I  buried 
my  head  under  my  pillow  and  wept  bitterly  until 
kindly  sleep  at  last  came  with  her  soft  breath  to 
blow  away  my  grief. 


VII 

TIBURTSI  APPEARS  OX  THE  SCENE 

"Good  morning!  I  thought  you  weren't  coming 
back  any  more !"  this  was  Valek's  greeting  to  me 
when  I  appeared  on  the  hill  next  day. 

I   understood  why   he  had   said   this. 

"No,  I — I  shall  always  come  here,"  I  answered 
firmly,  to  put  an  end  to  that  question  forever. 

Valek's  spirits  rose  perceptibly  at  this  answer  and 
we  both  felt  more  at  ease. 


158  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"Well,  and  where  are  your  people?"  I  asked. 
"Haven't  they  come  back  yet?" 

"Not  yet.  The  Lord  knows  what  has  become  of 
them." 

We  went  gaily  to  work  to  manufacture  a  cunning 
sparrow  trap  for  which  I  had  brought  the  string. 
This  string  we  put  into  Marusia's  hand,  and  when- 
ever a  thoughtless  sparrow  came  hopping  carelessly 
into  the  snare,  Marusia  would  pull  the  string,  and 
the  cover  would  slam  down  over  the  bird,  which  we 
would  afterwards  release. 

Meanwhile,  at  noon,  the  sky  had  grown  overcast. 
Dark  clouds  soon  came  rolling  up,  and  we  could 
hear  the  storm  roaring  between  merry  claps  of  thun- 
der. I  was  very  unwilling,  at  first,  to  go  down  into 
the  crypt,  but  remembering  that  Valek  and  Marusia 
lived  there  always  I  overcame  the  unpleasant  sensa- 
tion, and  went  with  them.  All  was  dark  and  quiet 
there,  but  we  could  hear  the  muffled  din  of  the  thun- 
der overhead  rumbling  exactly  as  if  some  one  were 
driving  an  enormous  wagon  over  a  monstrous  bridge. 
I  soon  grew  more  accustomed  to  the  crypt,  and  we 
stood  listening  happily  to  the  broad  sheets  of  rain 
descending  upon  the  earth,  while  the  roar  and  crash 
of  the  incessant  thunder-claps  keyed  up  our  nerves 
and  woke  in  us  an  animation  that  demanded  an 
outlet. 

"Come,  let's  play  blind-man's  buff!"  I  suggested. 

They  tied  a  bandage  over  my  eyes.     Marusia's 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  159 

pitiful  little  laughter  rang  out  as  her  languid  feet 
stumbled  across  the  stone  floor,  while  I  ran  in  pur- 
suit, until  I  suddenly  found  myself  bending  over  a 
wet  form,  and  at  the  same  moment  felt  some  one 
seize  my  leg.  A  powerful  arm  raised  me  off 
the  floor  and  held  me  upside  down  in  the  air.  The 
bandage  fell  from  my  eyes. 

Tiburtsi,  angry  and  wet  and  more  terrible  than 
ever  from  being  seen  upside  down,  was  holding  me 
by  the  leg  and  wildly  rolling  his  eyes. 

"What  is  this,  hey?"  he  asked  sternly,  glaring  at 
Valek.  "So  you  are  passing  the  time  gaily  here ! 
You  have  pleasant  company,  I  see." 

"Let  me  go!"  I  cried,  surprised  that  I  was  able 
to  speak  at  all  in  such  an  unusual  position,  but 
Tiburtsi  only  held  my  leg  the  tighter. 

"Responde!  Answer !"  he  sternly  commanded 
Valek,  who  was  standing  under  these  difficult  cir- 
cumstances with  two  fingers  thrust  into  his  mouth,  as 
if  to  proclaim  that  he  had  absolutely  nothing  to 
say. 

I  could  see,  though,  that  he  was  watching  my  un- 
happy person  swinging  in  space  like  a  pendulum 
with  sympathetic  eyes  and  a  great  deal  of  compas- 
sion. 

Tiburtsi  raised  me  and  looked  into  my  face. 

"Aha,  this  is  little  master  Judge  unless  my  eyes 
deceive  me !  Why  does  his  honour  favour  us  with 
a  visit?" 


160  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"Let  me  go!"  I  cried  stubbornly.  "Let  me  go 
at  once!" 

And  at  this  I  instinctively  made  a  movement  as 
if  I  were  stamping  my  foot  on  the  ground,  but 
the  only  result  was  the  quivering  of  my  body,  in 
mid-air. 

Tiburtsi  roared  with  laughter. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha !  My  Lord  the  Judge  is  pleased  to 
be  annoyed !  But  come,  you  don't  know  me  yet. 
Ego  Tiburtsi  sum.  And  I  am  going  to  hold  you 
over  a  fire,  like  this,  and  roast  you  like  a  little 
pig." 

I  began  to  think  that  this  would  inevitably  be  my 
fate,  especially  as  Valek's  despairing  face  seemed 
to  foretell  the  possibility  of  such  a  sad  ending,  but 
fortunately  Marusia  came  to  my  rescue. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  Vasia!  Don't  be  fright- 
ened !"  she  admonished  me,  going  right  up  to  Ti- 
burtsi's  legs.  "He  never  roasts  little  boys  over  a 
fire.  That  isn't  true!" 

Tiburtsi  turned  me  right  side  up  with  a  swift 
movement,  and  set  me  on  my  feet ;  at  this  I  nearly 
fell  down,  for  my  head  was  swimming,  but  he  sup- 
ported me  with  his  hand  and  then,  sitting  down  on 
a  log,  stood  me  between  his  knees. 

"And  how  did  you  get  here?"  he  asked.  "Have  you 
been  coming  here  long?  You  tell  me!"  he  com- 
manded, turning  to  Valek  when  he  saw  that  I  would 
not  answer. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  161 

"A  long  time,"  answered  the  boy. 

"How  long?" 

"Six  days." 

This  answer  seemed  to  please  Tiburtsi. 

"Aha,  six  days !"  he  said,  turning  me  round  so 
that  I  faced  him.  "Six  days  is  a  long  time.  And 
have  you  babbled  to  any  one  yet  where  you  have 
been?" 

"No,  not  to  any  one." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Not  to  any  one." 

"Bene,  that  is  excellent.  The  chances  are  that 
you  will  not  henceforth  babble.  I  always  did  think 
you  were  a  decent  little  fellow  from  meeting  you  on 
the  street.  You're  a  real  little  guttersnipe,  even  if 
you  are  a  judge.  Have  you  come  here  to  try  us, 
eh?" 

He  spoke  kindly  enough,  but  my  feelings  were 
deeply  hurt,  therefore  I  answered  crossly: 

"I'm  not  a  judge.     I'm  Vasia." 

"The  one  doesn't  interfere  with  the  other,  and 
Vasia  can  be  a  judge  too — not  now,  but  later  on. 
It's  an  old  story.  For  instance,  I  am  Tiburtsi,  he 
is  Valek;  I  am  a  beggar,  he  is  a  beggar.  In  fact, 
to  speak  frankly,  I  steal  and  he  will  steal  too.  Your 
father  tries  me  now;  very  well  then,  some  day  you 
will  try  Valek.  There  you  have  it!" 

"I  shan't  try  Valek,"  I  answered  gloomily.  "That 
isn't  true." 


162  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"He  won't  try  Valck,"  Marusia  spoke  up  for  me, 
confidently  dismissing  such  an  atrocious  supposi- 
tion. 

The  little  girl  nestled  confidingly  against  the  legs 
of  this  monster,  and  he  tenderly  stroked  her  curls 
with  his  sinewy  hand. 

"Drin't  say  that  too  soon,"  said  the  strange  fellow 
pensively,  turning  to  me  and  speaking  as  if  I  were 
a  grown  man.  "Don't  say  that,  amice!  It's  an  old 
story;  every  man  to  his  own,  suum  cuique;  every  one 
must  go  his  own  way,  and  who  knows,  perhaps  it's 
a  good  thing  that  your  path  has  crossed  ours.  It's 
a  good  thing  for  you,  amice,  because  it's  a  good 
thing  to  have  a  human  heart  in  one's  breast  and 
not  a  cold  stone — do  you  understand?" 

I  understood  nothing,  but  nevertheless  I  fixed  my 
gaze  on  this  queer  person's  face.  Tiburtsi's  eyes 
were  looking  deeply  into  mine,  and  there  gleamed 
dimly  in  them  something  that  seemed  to  pierce  into 
my  very  soul. 

"Of  course  you  don't  understand,  because  you  are 
still  a  child.  Therefore  let  me  tell  you  briefly  that 
you  may  some  day  remember  the  words  of  the  philos- 
opher Tiburtsi.  If  you  ever  find  yourself  sitting  in 
judgment  upon  that  boy  there,  remember  that  even 
in  the  days  when  you  were  both  silly  little  lads 
playing  together,  you  were  travelling  upon  the  road 
where  men  walk  well-clothed  and  well-fed,  while  he 
was  running  along,  a  ragged  sans-culotte  with  an 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  163 

empty  belly.  And  besides,  until  that  happens,  re- 
member one  thing  well,"  he  added,  sharply  changing 
his  tone.  "If  you  whisper  one  word  of  what  you 
have  seen  here  to  that  Judge  of  yours,  or  even  to 
a  bird,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Tiburtsi  Drab  I'll  hang 
you  up  by  the  heels  in  that  fireplace  and  make  roast 
ham  of  you.  You  understand  that,  I  hope?" 

"I  won't  tell  any  one — I — may  I  come  again?" 

"You  may,  I  give  you  my  permission — sum  con- 
ditionem — but  you're  stupid  yet  and  don't  under- 
stand Latin.  I  have  already  told  you  about  that 
ham — now  remember!" 

He  let  me  go,  and  stretched  himself  wearily  on  a 
bench  by  the  wall. 

"Bring  me  that  there,"  he  said  to  Valek,  pointing 
to  a  large  bi*g  which  he  had  left  on  the  threshold 
as  he  came  in.  "And  light  the  fire.  We're  going 
to  cook  dinner  to-day." 

He  was  now  no  longer  the  same  man  who  had 
frightened  me  a  short  while  ago  by  rolling  his  eyes,  or 
the  mountebank  who  was  wont  to  amuse  the  public 
for  pennies.  He  had  taken  his  place  as  a  host  at  the 
head  of  his  family,  and,  like  a  man  who  has  re- 
turned from  his  daily  toil,  he  issued  commands  to 
his  household. 

He  seemed  very  tired.  His  clothes  were  drenched 
with  rain,  his  hair  was  clinging  to  his  brow,  and  his 
whole  expression  was  one  of  utter  weariness.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  that  look  on  the  face 


164  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

of  the  jolly  orator  of  the  cafes,  and  this  glimpse 
behind  the  scenes  of  an  actor  resting  after  playing 
a  difficult  and  exhausting  role  on  the  stage  of  life, 
filled  my  heart  with  a  feeling  of  pain  and  dread. 
It  was  another  of  those  revelations  with  which  the 
old  chapel  had  been  so  rife  for  me. 

Valek  and  I  went  quickly  to  work.  Valek  lit  a 
little  torch,  and  together  we  entered  a  dark  passage 
adjoining  the  crypt.  There,  in  a  corner,  lay  some 
logs  of  half-decayed  wood,  bits  of  crosses,  and  old 
boards.  We  chose  several  pieces  out  of  this  store 
and,  heaping  them  up  in  the  fireplace,  kindled  a  little 
fire.  Then  I  had  to  stand  aside  while  Valek  with 
knowing  hands  went  to  work  alone  on  the  cooking. 

Half  an  hour  later  some  kind  of  a  brew  was  al- 
ready stewing  in  a  pot  over  the  fire,  and  while  we 
were  waiting  for  it  to  cook,  Valek  placed  upon  a 
rough  three-legged  table  a  frying  pan  in  which 
some  pieces  of  meat  were  steaming. 

Tiburtsi  rose. 

"Is  it  ready?"  he  asked.  "Well,  that's  splendid. 
Sit  down  with  us,  boy,  you  have  earned  your  din- 
ner. Domine!" — he  next  shouted  to  the  Professor. 
"Put  down  your  needle  and  come  to  the  table." 

"In  a  minute,"  answered  the  Professor  in  a  low 
voice.  Such  a  sensible  remark  from  him  surprised 
me. 

But  the  spark  of  consciousness  that  Tiburtsi's 
voice  had  awakened  in  him  did  not  reappear.  The 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  165 

old  man  thrust  his  needle  into  his  rags  and  indiffer- 
ently, with  a  dull  look,  took  his  seat  on  one  of  the 
logs  that  served  as  chairs  in  the  crypt. 

Tiburtsi  held  Marusia  on  his  lap.  She  and  Valek 
ate  with  an  appetite  that  showed  what  a  rare  lux- 
ury meat  was  for  them;  Marusia  even  licked  her 
greasy  little  fingers.  Tiburtsi  ate  with  frequent 
pauses,  and,  evidently  obeying  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse to  talk,  turned  his  conversation  to  the  Pro- 
fessor. The  poor  man  of  letters  grew  surpris- 
ingly attentive  whenever  he  did  this,  and  bowed  his 
head  to  listen,  with  a  great  air  of  intelligence  as  if 
he  understood  every  word.  Sometimes  he  even  sig- 
nified his  assent  by  nodding  and  making  soft  little 
moans. 

"You  see,  Domine,  how  little  a  man  needs,"  Ti- 
burtsi said.  "Am  I  not  right?  There !  now  our  hun- 
ger is  appeased,  and  all  that  now  remains  for  us  to 
do  is  to  thank  God — and  the  Roman  Catholic  Priest." 

"Aha,  aha !"  agreed  the  Professor. 

"You  agree  with  me,  Domine,  but  you  don't  know 
what  the  Priest  has  to  do  with  it.  I  know  you  well. 
Nevertheless,  if  it  weren't  for  the  Priest  we  shouldn't 
be  eating  fried  meat  and  other  things  now." 

"Did  he  give  it  to  you?"  I  asked. 

"This  youngster  has  an  inquiring  mind,  Domine," 
Tiburtsi  continued.  "Of  course  his  Reverence  gave 
us  this,  although  we  did  not  ask  him  for  it,  and  al- 
though not  only  his  left  hand  knew  not  what  his 


166  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

right  hand  was  doing,  but  neither  hand  had  the 
slightest  knowledge  of  the  transaction.  Eat, 
Domine !" 

All  I  could  understand  from  this  strange,  con- 
fused discourse  was,  that  the  method  of  obtaining 
our  dinner  had  not  been  quite  regular,  and  I  could 
not  refrain  from  asking  another  question. 

"Did  you — take  this  yourself?" 

"The  boy  is  not  devoid  of  shrewdness,"  Tiburtsi 
continued.  "It  is  only  a  pity  that  he  hasn't  seen 
the  Priest.  The  Priest  has  a  belly  like  a  forty- 
gallon  cask,  and  it's  no  dqubt  very  dangerous  for 
him  to  indulge  in  greed.  On  the  other  hand  all  of 
us  here  suffer  rather  from  an  excess  of  leanness  than 
from  corpulence,  therefore  a  certain  amount  of  food 
does  not  come  amiss.  Am  I  right,  Domine?" 

"Aha,  aha !"  pensively  moaned  the  Professor  again. 

"There,  you  see !  You  have  expressed  your  mean- 
ing extremely  successfully  this  time.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  that  this  youngster  here  had  more 
brains  than  some  men  of  learning.  However,  to  re- 
turn to  the  Priest,  I  always  think  that  a  good  lesson 
is  worth  the  price,  and  in  this  case  we  can  say  that 
we  bought  these  provisions  from  him.  If  he  makes 
the  doors  of  his  store-house  a  little  stronger  in  future 
we  shall  be  quits.  However,"  he  cried,  suddenly 
turning  to  me,  "you  are  stupid  still  and  there  is 
much  you  don't  understand.  But  she,  there,  will 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  167 

understand.  Tell  me,  my  Marusia,  did  I  do  right 
to  bring  you  some  meat?" 

"Yes !"  answered  the  child,  her  sapphire  eyes  shin- 
ing softly,  "Manya  was  hungry." 

At  twilight  that  evening  I  turned  homeward  with 
a  reeling  brain.  Tiburtsi's  strange  sayings  had  not 
for  a  moment  stilled  the  conviction  in  my  breast  that 
it  was  "wicked  to  steal."  On  the  contrary,  the  pain- 
ful sensation  that  I  had  felt  before  had  grown 
stronger  than  ever.  They  were  beggars,  thieves, 
they  had  no  home !  From  every  one  around  me  I  had 
long  ago  heard  that  contempt  was  always  attached 
to  such  people.  I  felt  all  the  poignancy  of  contempt 
rising  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  but  I  instinctively 
shielded  my  affection  from  this  bitter  alloy,  and 
did  not  allow  the  two  feelings  to  mingle.  As  a 
result  of  these  dark  workings  of  my  soul,  my  pity 
for  Valek  and  Marusia  grew  greater  and  more  acute, 
but  my  affection  did  not  diminish.  The  formula 
that  "it  was  wicked  to  steal"  remained  inviolate  in 
my  mind,  but  when  I  saw  in  imagination  my  small 
friend  licking  her  greasy  little  fingers  I  rejoiced  in 
her  joy  and  in  Valek's. 

Next  evening,  in  one  of  our  dark  garden  paths, 
I  unexpectedly  met  my  father.  He  was  pacing  up 
and  down  as  usual,  staring  before  him  with  his  ac- 
customed strange,  vacant  look.  When  I  appeared 
beside  him  he  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Where  have  you  been?" 


168  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"I — I  have  been  out  walking." 

He  looked  at  me  sharply  and  seemed  to  want  to 
say  something,  but  his  eyes  soon  grew  abstracted 
again,  and,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  he  walked 
away  down  the  path.  Even  in  those  days  I  seemed 
to  understand  the  meaning  of  that  gesture.  It 
said: 

"Ah,  what  does  it  matter?    She  is  not  here!" 

I  had  lied  almost  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

I  had  always  been  afraid  of  my  father,  and  I  now 
feared  him  more  than  ever.  I  was  harbouring  in 
my  breast  a  whole  world  of  vague  questions  and  sen- 
sations. Could  he  understand  me?  Could  I  con- 
fess anything  to  him  without  betraying  my  friends? 
I  trembled  at  the  thought  that  in  due  time  he  would 
hear  of  my  acquaintance  with  that  "bad  company," 
but,  betray  Valek  and  Marusia — no,  that  I  could 
never  do!  There  was  a  reason  for  my  resolve:  if 
I  broke  my  word  and  betrayed  them,  I  should  never 
be  able  to  raise  my  eyes  to  their  faces  again  for 
shame. 


VIII 

AUTUMN 

Autumn   was   drawing   near.      In    the    fields   the 
harvest  was  being  reaped ;  the  leaves  were  turning 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  169 

yellow  in  the  woods.  With  the  approach  of  autumn 
Marusia's  health  began  to  fail. 

It  was  not  that  she  complained  of  any  pain,  but 
she  grew  thinner  ever  day;  her  face  grew  paler,  her 
eyes  grew  larger  and  darker,  and  it  was  with  dif- 
ficulty that  she  could  raise  her  drooping  eyelids. 

I  could  climb  the  hill  now  without  caring  whether 
the  "bad  company"  was  there  or  not.  I  had  grown 
thoroughly  accustomed  to  them,  and  felt  absolutely 
at  home  in  their  abode. 

"You're  a  fine  youngster,  and  you'll  be  a  great 
man  some  day,"  Tiburtsi  predicted. 

The  younger  "suspicious  persons"  made  me  a  bow 
and  arrow  out  of  elm  wood ;  the  tall,  red-nosed  Grena- 
dier twirled  me  in  the  air  like  a  leaf  as  he  gave  me 
gymnastic  lessons.  Only  the  Professor  and  Lav- 
rovski  always  seemed  to  remain  unconscious  of  my 
presence.  The  Professor  was  forever  in  the  midst 
of  some  deep  dream,  while  Lavrovski,  when  he  was 
sober,  by  nature  avoided  all  human  intercourse,  and 
preferred  to  crouch  in  a  corner  by  himself. 

All  these  people  lived  apart  from  Tiburtsi  who, 
with  his  "family,"  occupied  the  crypt  I  have  already 
spoken  of.  They  inhabited  a  crypt  which  was  similar 
to  ours  but  larger,  and  which  was  divided  from  it 
by  two  narrow  halls.  Here  was  less  light  and  more 
dampness  and  gloom.  In  places  along  the  walls 
stood  wooden  benches  and  the  blocks  which  served 
as  chairs.  The  benches  were  littered  with  heaps 


170  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

of  rags,  which  had  converted  them  into  beds.  In  the 
middle  of  the  crypt,  under  a  ray  of  light,  stood  a 
joiner's  bench  at  which  Tiburtsi  and  the  others 
sometimes  worked.  The  "bad  company"  included 
a  cobbler  and  a  basket  maker,  but  all,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Tiburtsi,  were  either  starvelings  or  tri- 
flers ;  men,  I  noticed,  whose  hands  trembled  too  much 
for  them  to  do  any  work  successfully.  The  floor  of 
this  crypt  was  always  strewn  with  chips  and  shavings 
and  dirt,  and  disorder  reigned  supreme,  even  though 
Tiburtsi  scolded  the  inmates  furiously  at  times,  and 
made  one  of  them  sweep  the  floor  and  put  the  gloomy 
abode  in  order  if  ever  so  little.  I  did  not  often  visit 
them  because  I  could  not  accustom  myself  to  the 
foul  air,  and  because,  too,  the  sombre  Lavrovski  dwelt 
there  when  he  was  sober.  He  was  generally  either 
sitting  on  a  bench  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  his 
long  hair  streaming,  or  pacing  up  and  down  from 
corner  to  corner  with  swift  strides.  His 
whole  person  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  such  de- 
pression and  gloom  that  my  nerves  could  not  en- 
dure it.  His  fellow-unfortunates,  however,  had  long 
since  grown  accustomed  to  his  eccentric  ways. 
"General  Turkevich"  would  sometimes  set  him  to 
work  making  fair  copies  of  petitions  and  of  quips 
and  quirks  which  he  himself  had  written  for  the 
townsfolk,  or  else  he  would  make  him  write  out  the 
lampoons  which  he  afterwards  nailed  to  the  lamp 
posts  of  the  city.  Lavrovski  would  then  quietly 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  171 

take  his  seat  at  a  table  in  Tiburtsi's  room,  and  for 
hours  at  a  time  would  sit  forming,  one  after  an- 
other, the  beautiful,  even  letters  of  his  exquisite 
handwriting.  Twice  I  chanced  to  see  him  carried 
down  stupefied  with  drink  from  above  ground  into 
the  crypt.  The  unhappy  man's  head  was  dangling 
and  banging  from  side  to  side,  his  legs  were  trundling 
helplessly  after  him  and  bumping  down  the  stone 
steps,  his  face  wore  a  look  of  misery,  and  tears  were 
trickling  down  his  cheeks.  Marusia  and  I,  clinging 
tightly  to  one  another,  watched  these  scenes  from 
a  distant  corner,  but  Valek  mixed  quite  nonchalantly 
with  the  men,  supporting  now  a  hand,  now  a  foot, 
now  the  head  of  the  helpless  Lavrovski. 

Everything  about  these  people  that  had  amused 
and  interested  me  like  a  Punch  and  Judy  show  when 
I  saw  it  in  the  streets  was  revealed  to  me  here,  be- 
hind the  scenes,  in  all  its  ugly  nakedness,  and  the 
sight  of  it  weighed  heavily  upon  my  childish  spirits. 

Here  Tiburtsi  held  undisputed  sway.  It  was  he 
who  had  discovered  the  crypts,  he  who  had  taken 
possession  of  them,  and  all  his  band  obeyed  him  im- 
plicitly. That  is  probably  the  reason  why  I  do  not 
remember  one  single  occasion  on  which  any  one  of 
those  creatures,  who  had  certainly  lost  all  the  sem- 
balance  of  human  beings,  ever  came  to  me  with  an  evil 
suggestion. 

Having  gained  in  knowledge  from  a  prosaic  ex- 
perience of  life,  I  know  now  that  there  must  have 


172  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

been  a  certain  amount  of  depravity,  petty  vice,  and 
rottenness  among  them,  but  to-day,  when  those  peo- 
ple and  scenes  rise  in  my  memory  wrapped  in  the 
mists  of  the  past,  I  see  before  me  only  tragedy,  pov- 
erty, and  the  profoundest  sadness. 

Oh,  Childhood  and  Youth,  what  great  fountain- 
heads  of  idealism  you  are! 

And  now  Autumn  began  to  come  into  its  own. 
The  sky  was  more  frequently  overcast,  the  surround- 
ing country  sank  into  a  misty  crepuscule,  torrents 
of  rain  swept  noisily  across  the  earth,  and  their 
thunder  resounded  monotonously  and  mournfully  in 
the  crypt. 

I  found  it  very  hard  to  steal  away  from  home  in 
this  weather,  for  my  one  desire  was  to  get  away 
unnoticed.  When  I  came  back  drenched  to  the  skin, 
I  would  hang  up  my  clothes  before  the  fire  myself, 
and  slip  quietly  into  bed,  there  to  endure  philo- 
sophically the  torrents  of  scolding  that  would  inva- 
riably flow  from  the  lips  of  the  servants  and  my 
nurse. 

Every  time  I  visited  my  friends  I  noticed  that 
Marusia's  health  was  failing  more  and  more.  She 
never  went  out  into  the  fresh  air  now,  and  the  grey 
stone — that  unseen,  silent  monster  of  the  crypt — 
did  its  dreadful  work  without  interruption,  suck- 
ing the  life  out  of  her  little  body.  The  child  spent 
most  of  her  time  in  bed,  and  Valek  and  I  ex- 
hausted every  means  in  our  power  to  amuse  and 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  173 

interest  her  and  to  awaken  the  soft  peals  of  her 
frail  laughter. 

Now  that  I  had  really  become  one  of  the  "bad 
company"  the  child's  sad  smile  had  grown  almost 
as  dear  to  me  as  my  sister's,  but  with  Marusia  I 
was  not  constantly  reminded  of  my  wickedness ;  here 
was  no  scolding  nurse ;  on  the  contrary,  I  knew 
that  each  time  I  came  my  arrival  would  call  the 
colour  into  Marusia's  cheeks.  Valek  embraced  me 
like  a  brother,  and  even  Tiburtsi  would  sometimes 
watch  us  three  with  a  strange  expression  on  his  face 
and  something  very  like  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes. 

Then  one  day  the  sky  grew  clear  again.  The  last 
clouds  blew  away,  and  the  sun  shone  out  upon  the 
earth  for  the  last  time  before  winter's  coming.  We 
carried  Marusia  up  into  the  sunlight,  and  there  she 
seemed  to  revive.  She  gazed  about  her  with  wide 
eyes,  and  the  colour  came  into  her  cheeks.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  wind  that  was  blowing  over  her  with  its  cool, 
fresh  breath  were  returning  to  her  part  of  the  life- 
blood  stolen  by  the  grey  stones  of  the  crypt.  But 
alas !  this  did  not  last  long. 

And  in  the  meanwhile  clouds  were  beginning  to 
gather  over  my  head  as  well. 

One  morning  as  I  was  running  down  the  garden 
path  as  usual  I  caught  sight  of  my  father  and  old 
Yanush  of  the  castle.  The  old  man  was  cringing 
and  bowing  and  saying  something  to  my  father,  and 
the  latter  was  standing  before  him,  gloomy  and  stern, 


174  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

with  a  frown  of  impatient  anger  between  his  eyes.  At 
last  my  father  stretched  out  his  hand  as  if  to  push 
Yanush  aside,  and  said: 

"Go  away !    You  are  nothing  but  an  old  gossip !" 

The  old  man  blinked  and,  holding  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  ran  forward  again  and  stood  in  my  father's 
path.  My  father's  eyes  flashed  with  anger.  Yanush 
was  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  and  I  could  not  hear 
what  he  was  saying,  but  my  father's  broken  sen- 
tences fell  upon  my  ears  with  the  utmost  distinctness, 
like  the  blows  of  a  whip. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it — What  do  you  want 
to  persecute  those  people  for? — I  won't  listen  to 
verbal  accusations,  and  a  written  one  you  would 
be  obliged  to  prove — Silence !  that  is  my  business — 
I  won't  listen  to  you,  I  tell  you." 

He  finally  pushed  Yanush  away  so  firmly  that  the 
latter  did  not  dare  to  intrude  upon  him  any  longer. 
My  father  turned  aside  into  another  path,  and  I 
ran  out  through  the  gate. 

I  very  much  disliked  this  old  owl  of  the  castle,  and 
I  trembled  now  with  a  premonition  of  evil.  I  real- 
ised that  the  conversation  I  had  overheard  related 
to  my  friends  and  perhaps,  also,  to  me. 

When  I  told  Tiburtsi  what  had  happened  he  made 
a  dreadful  face. 

"Whew,  young  one,  what  bad  news  that  is!  Oh, 
that  accursed  old  fox!" 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  175 

"My  father  drove  him  away,"  I  answered  to  con- 
sole him. 

"Your  father,  young  man,  is  the  best  judge  there 
has  been  since  the  days  of  Solomon,  but  do  you  know 
what  curriculum  vitce  means?  Of  course  you  don't. 
But  you  know  what  the  Record  of  Service  is,  don't 
you?  Well,  curriculum  vitce  is  the  Record  of  Service 
of  a  man  who  is  not  employed  in  the  County  Court, 
and  if  that  old  screech-owl  has  been  able  to  ferret 
out  anything  and  can  show  your  father  my  record 
why — well,  I  swear  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven  I  wouldn't 
care  to  fall  into  the  Judge's  clutches !" 

"He's  not  a  cruel  man,  is  he?"  I  asked,  remember- 
ing what  Valek  had  told  me. 

"No,  no,  my  boy,  God  forbid  that  you  should  think 
that  of  your  father !  Your  father  has  a  good  heart. 
Perhaps  he  already  knows  everything  that  Yanush 
has  been  able  to  tell  him,  and  still  holds  his  tongue. 
He  doesn't  think  it  is  necessary  to  pursue  a  toothless 
old  lion  into  his  last  lair.  But  how  can  I  explain  it 
to  you,  my  boy?  Your  father  works  for  a  gentle- 
man whose  name  is  Law.  He  has  eyes  and  a  heart 
only  as  long  as  Law  is  nicely  tucked  up  in  bed,  but 
when  that  gentleman  gets  up  and  comes  to  your 
father  and  says :  'Come  on,  Judge,  sha'n't  we  get  on 
the  trail  of  Tiburtsi  Drab  or  whatever  his  name  is?' 
from  that  moment  the  Judge  must  lock  up  his  heart, 
and  his  claws  will  become  so  sharp  that  the  earth 
will  turn  upside  down  before  Tiburtsi  will  escape 


176  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

out  of  his  clutches.  Do  you  understand,  my  boy? 
And  that's  why  I,  why  we  all,  respect  your  father  as 
we  do,  because  he  is  a  faithful  servant  of  his  master, 
and  such  men  are  rare.  If  all  Law's  servants  were 
like  him,  Law  could  sleep  quietly  in  his  bed  and 
never  wake  up  at  all.  My  whole  trouble  is  that  I 
had  a  quarrel  with  Law  a  long  time  ago — ah  yes,  my 
boy,  a  very  violent  quarrel !" 

As  he  said  this  Tiburtsi  got  up,  took  Marusia's 
hand,  and,  leading  her  into  a  distant  corner,  began 
kissing  her  and  pressing  his  rough  head  to  her  tiny 
breast.  I  stood  motionless  where  I  was  under  the 
spell  of  the  impression  created  by  the  strange  words 
of  this  strange  man.  In  spite  of  the  fantastic  and 
unintelligible  twists  and  turns  of  his  speech  I  under- 
stood perfectly  the  substance  of  what  Tiburtsi  had 
said,  and  my  father's  image  loomed  more  imposing 
than  ever  in  my  imagination,  invested  with  a  halo 
of  stern  but  lovable  strength  amounting  almost  to 
grandeur.  But  at  the  same  time  another  and  a  bit- 
terer feeling  which  I  bore  in  my  breast  had  increased 
in  intensity.  "That's  what  he's  like!"  I  thought. 
"And  he  doesn't  love  me !" 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  177 

IX 

THE  DOLL 

The  bright  days  soon  passed,  and  Marusia  began 
to  grow  worse  again.  She  now  gazed  indifferently 
with  her  large,  fixed,  darkening  eyes  at  all  our  cun- 
ning devices  for  her  amusement,  and  it  was  long 
since  we  had  heard  her  laughter.  I  began  to  bring 
my  playthings  to  the  crypt,  but  they  only  diverted 
her  for  a  short  time.  I  then  decided  to  turn  for 
help  to  my  sister  Sonia. 

Sonia  had  a  large  doll  with  magnificent  long  hair 
and  cheeks  painted  a  brilliant  red,  a  present  from 
our  mother.  I  had  the  greatest  faith  in  the  powers 
of  this  doll,  and  therefore,  calling  my  sister  into  a 
distant  part  of  the  garden  one  day,  I  asked  her  to 
lend  it  to  me.  I  begged  so  earnestly  and  described 
the  little  suffering  girl  who  had  no  toys  of  her  own 
so  vividly  that  Sonia,  who  at  first  had  only  clasped 
the  doll  more  tightly  to  her  breast,  handed  it  to 
me  and  promised  to  play  with  her  other  toys  for 
two  or  three  days  and  to  forget  the  doll  entirely. 

The  effect  produced  on  Marusia  by  this  gaily 
dressed  young  lady  with  the  china  face  exceeded  all 
my  wildest  hopes.  The  child,  who  had  been  fading 
like  a  flower  in  Autumn,  suddenly  seemed  to  revive 
again.  How  tightly  she  hugged  me !  How  merrily 


178  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

she  laughed  as  she  chattered  to  her  new  acquaint- 
ance !  The  doll  almost  worked  a  miracle.  Marusia, 
who  had  not  left  her  bed  for  many  days,  began 
to  toddle  about,  pulling  her  fair-haired  daugh- 
ter after  her,  and  even  ran  a  few  steps,  dragging 
her  weak  little  feet  across  the  floor  as  she  had  done 
in  former  days. 

At  the  same  time  the  doll  gave  me  many  an  anx- 
ious moment.  In  the  first  place,  on  my  way  to  the 
hill  with  my  prize  under  my  coat,  I  had  met  Yanush 
on  the  road,  and  the  old  man  had  followed  me  for  a 
long  time  with  his  eyes,  and  shaken  his  head.  Then, 
two  days  later,  our  old  nurse  had  noticed  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  doll,  and  had  begun  poking  her 
nose  into  every  corner  in  search  of  it.  Sonia  tried 
to  appease  her,  but  the  child's  artless  assurances 
that  she  didn't  want  the  doll,  that  the  doll  had  gone 
out  for  a  walk  and  would  soon  come  back,  only  served 
to  create  doubts  in  the  minds  of  the  servants,  and 
to  awaken  their  suspicions  that  this  might  not  sim- 
ply be  a  question  of  loss.  My  father  knew  nothing 
as  yet,  and  though  Yanush,  who  came  to  him  again 
one  day,  was  sent  away  even  more  angrily  than  be- 
fore, my  father  stopped  me  that  morning  on  the 
way  to  the  garden  gate  and  ordered  me  not  to  leave 
home.  The  same  thing  happened  on  the  following 
day,  and  only  on  the  fourth  did  I  get  up  early  and 
slip  away  over  the  fence  while  my  father  was  still 
asleep. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  179 

Things  were  still  going  badly  on  the  hill.  Marusia 
was  in  bed  again  and  was  worse.  Her  face  was 
strangely  flushed,  her  fair  curls  were  lying  di- 
sheveled on  her  pillow,  and  she  recognised  no  one. 
Beside  her  lay  the  disastrous  doll  with  its  pink  cheeks 
and  its  stupid,  staring  eyes. 

I  told  Valek  of  the  danger  I  was  running,  and  we 
both  decided  that  undoubtedly  I  ought  to  take  the 
doll  home,  especially  as  Marusia  would  not  notice  its 
absence.  But  we  were  mistaken!  No  sooner  did  I 
take  the  doll  out  of  the  arms  of  the  unconscious  child 
than  she  opened  her  eyes,  stared  vaguely  about  as  if 
she  did  not  see  me  and  did  not  know  what  was  hap- 
pening to  her,  and  then  suddenly  began  to  cry  very, 
very  softly,  but  oh,  so  piteously,  while  an  expres- 
sion of  such  deep  sorrow  swept  across  her  features 
under  the  veil  of  her  delirium  that,  panic-stricken,  I 
immediately  laid  the  doll  back  in  its  former  place. 
The  child  smiled,  drew  the  doll  to  her  breast,  and 
grew  calm  again.  I  realised  that  I  had  tried  to  de- 
prive my  little  friend  of  the  first  and  last  pleasure 
of  her  short  life. 

Valek  looked  shyly  at  me. 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  he  asked  sadly. 

Tiburtsi,  who  was  sitting  on  a  bench  with  his  head 
sunk  dejectedly  on  his  breast,  also  looked  at  me, 
with  a  question  in  his  eyes.  I  therefore  tried  to  look 
as  careless  as  possible,  and  said: 


180  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

"Never  mind;  nurse  has  probably  forgotten  all 
about  it  by  now." 

But  the  old  woman  had  not  forgotten.  When  I 
reached  home  that  day  I  again  found  Yanush  at  the 
garden  gate.  Sonia's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping 
and  our  nurse  threw  me  an  angry,  icy  glance  and 
muttered  something  between  her  toothless  gums. 

My  father  asked  me  where  I  had  been,  and  having 
listened  attentively  to  my  usual  answer,  confined 
himself  to  telling  me  not  to  leave  the  house  without 
his  permission  under  any  circumstances  whatsoever. 
This  command  was  categorical  and  absolutely 
peremptory.  I  dared  not  disobey  it,  and  at  the  same 
time  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  ask  my  father 
for  leave  to  go  to  my  friends. 

Four  weary  days  passed.  I  spent  my  time  roam- 
ing dejectedly  about  the  garden,  gazing  longingly  in 
the  direction  of  the  hill,  and  waiting,  too,  for  the 
storm  which  I  felt  was  gathering  over  my  head.  I 
had  no  idea  what  the  future  might  bring,  but  my 
heart  was  as  heavy  as  lead.  No  one  had  ever  pun- 
ished me  in  my  life;  my  father  had  never  so  much 
as  laid  a  finger  on  me,  and  I  had  never  heard  a  harsh 
word  from  his  lips,  but  I  was  suffering  now  from  an 
oppressive  sense  of  coming  misfortune. 

At  last  my  father  summoned  me  to  his  study.  I 
opened  the  door  and  stopped  timidly  on  the  thresh- 
old. The  melancholy  autumn  sun  was  shining  in 
through  the  windows.  My  father  was  sitting  in  an 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  181 

arm  chair  before  a  portrait  of  my  mother,  and  did 
not  turn  to  look  at  me  as  I  came  in.  I  could  hear 
the  anxious  beating  of  my  own  heart. 

At  last  my  father  turned  round ;  I  raised  my  eyes 
and  instantly  dropped  them  again.  My  father's  face 
looked  terrible  to  me.  Half  a  minute  passed,  and  I 
could  feel  his  stern,  fixed,  withering  gaze  riveted 
upon  me. 

"Did  you  take  your  sister's  doll?" 

The  words  fell  upon  my  ears  so  suddenly  and 
sharply  that  I  quivered. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  do  you  know  that  that  doll  was  a  present 
from  your  mother,  and  that  you  ought  to  have  pre- 
served it  as  something  sacred?  Did  you  steal  it?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  raising  my  head. 

"How  can  you  say  no?"  my  father  suddenly 
shouted.  "You  stole  it  and  took  it  away.  Whom 
did  you  take  it  to?  Speak!" 

He  strode  swiftly  toward  me,  and  laid  a  heavy 
hand  upon  my  shoulder.  I  raised  my  head  with  an 
effort,  and  looked  up.  My  father's  face  was  pale. 
The  frown  of  pain  which  had  lain  between  his  brows 
since  my  mother's  death  was  still  there,  but  now  his 
eyes  were  flashing  with  sombre  wrath.  I  shrank 
away.  I  seemed  to  see  madness — or  was  it  hatred? 
— glaring  at  me  out  of  those  eyes. 

"Well,  what  did  you  do?    Answer !"    And  the  hand 


182  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

which  was  holding  my  shoulder  gripped  it  more 
tightly  than  before. 

"I — I  won't  tell  you,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  you  will  tell  me!"  my  father  rapped  out, 
and  there  was  a  threat  in  his  voice. 

"I  won't  tell  you,"  I  whispered  lower  still. 

"You  will,  you  will!" 

He  repeated  these  words  in  a  muffled  voice  as  if 
they  had  burst  from  him  with  a  painful  effort.  I  felt 
his  hand  trembling,  and  even  seemed  to  hear  the  rage 
boiling  in  his  breast.  My  head  sank  lower  and 
lower,  and  tears  began  to  drip  slowly  out  of  my  eyes 
upon  the  floor,  but  I  still  kept  repeating  almost 
inaudibly : 

"No,  I  won't  tell ;  I'll  never,  never  tell." 

It  was  my  father's  son  speaking  in  me.  He  could 
never  have  succeeded  in  extorting  an  answer  from 
me,  no,  not  by  the  fiercest  tortures.  There  welled  up 
in  my  breast  in  response  to  his  threats  the  almost  un- 
conscious feeling  of  injury  that  comes  to  an  ill- 
used  child,  and  a  sort  of  burning  love  for  those 
whose  betrayal  my  father  was  demanding. 

My  father  drew  a  deep  breath.  I  shrank  away 
still  farther,  and  the  bitter  tears  scalded  my  cheeks. 
I  waited. 

It  would  be  hard  for  me  to  describe  my  sensa- 
tions at  that  moment.  I  knew  that  his  breast  was 
seething  with  rage,  and  that  at  any  moment  my  body 
might  be  struggling  helplessly  in  his  strong,  delirious 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  183 

arms.  What  would  he  do  to  me?  Would  he  hurl  me 
from  him  ?  Would  he  crush  me  ?  But  I  did  not  seem 
to  dread  that  now.  I  even  loved  the  man  in  that 
moment  of  fear,  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  felt  in- 
stinctively that  he  was  about  to  shatter  this  love 
with  one  mad  effort,  and  that  for  ever  and  ever 
after  I  should  carry  the  same  little  flame  of  hatred 
in  my  heart  which  I  had  seen  gleaming  in  his  eyes. 

I  had  lost  all  sense  of  fear.  Instead,  there  had 
begun  to  throb  in  my  heart  a  feeling  exasperating, 
bold,  challenging;  I  seemed  to  be  waiting,  and  long- 
ing for  the  catastrophe  to  come  at  last. 

It  would  be  better  so — yes — better — better 

Once  more  my  father  sighed  heavily.  I  was  no 
longer  looking  at  him.  I  only  heard  his  sighs,  long, 
deep,  and  convulsive,  and  I  know  not  to  this  day 
whether  he  himself  overcame  the  frenzy  that  pos- 
sessed him  or  whether  it  failed  to  find  an  outlet  owing 
to  an  unexpected  occurrence.  I  only  know  that  at 
that  critical  moment  Tiburtsi  suddenly  shouted  un- 
der the  open  window  in  his  harsh  voice: 
"Hi,  there,  my  poor  little  friend!" 
"Tiburtsi  is  here!"  flashed  through  my  mind,  but 
his  coming  made  no  other  impression  on  me.  I  was 
all  beside  myself  with  suspense,  and  did  not  even 
heed  the  trembling  of  my  father's  hand  upon  my 
shoulder,  or  realise  that  Tiburtsi's  appearance  or 
any  other  external  circumstance  could  come  between 
my  father  and  myself,  or  could  avert  that  which  I 


184  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

believed  to  be  inevitable,  and  which  I  was  awaiting 
with  such  a  flood  of  passionate  anger. 

Meanwhile  Tiburtsi  had  quickly  opened  the  door 
of  the  room,  and  now  stood  on  the  threshold  embrac- 
ing us  both  with  his  piercing,  lynx-like  glance.  I  can 
remember  to  this  day  the  smallest  details  of  the  scene. 
For  a  moment  a  flash  of  cold,  malevolent  mockery 
gleamed  in  the  greenish  eyes  and  passed  over  the 
wide,  uncouth  face  of  this  gutter  orator,  but  it  was 
only  a  flash.  Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  there  was 
more  of  sorrow  than  of  his  accustomed  irony  in  his 
voice  as  he  said: 

"Oho,  I  see  that  my  young  friend  is  in  an  awkward 
situation." 

My  father  received  him  with  a  gloomy,  threaten- 
ing look,  but  Tiburtsi  endured  it  calmly.  He  had 
grown  serious  now,  and  his  mockery  had  ceased. 
There  was  a  striking  look  of  sadness  in  his  eyes. 

"My  Lord  Judge,"  he  said  gently.  "You  are  a 
just  man;  let  the  child  go!  The  boy  has  been  'in 
bad  company,'  but  God  knows  he  has  done  no  bad 
deeds,  and  if  his  little  heart  is  drawn  toward  my 
unfortunate  people,  I  swear  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven 
that  you  may  hang  me  if  you  wish,  but  I  will  not 
allow  the  boy  to  suffer  for  that.  Here  is  your  doll, 
my  lad." 

He  untied  a  little  bundle,  and  took  out  the  doll. 

The  hands  that  had  been  gripping  my  shoulder 
relaxed.  My  father  looked  surprised. 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  185 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Let  the  boy  go !"  Tiburtsi  repeated,  stroking  my 
bowed  head  lovingly  with  his  broad  palm.  "You  will 
get  nothing  out  of  him  with  your  threats,  and  be- 
sides, I  will  gladly  tell  you  everything  you  want  to 
know.  Come,  Your  Honour,  let  us  go  into  an- 
other room." 

My  father  consented,  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  sur- 
prise on  Tiburtsi's  face.  They  went  out  together, 
and  I  stayed  rooted  to  the  spot,  overwhelmed  with 
the  emotions  with  which  my  heart  was  bursting.  At 
that  moment  I  was  unconscious  of  what  was  going 
on  around  me,  and  if,  in  calling  to  mind  the  details 
of  this  scene,  I  remember  that  sparrows  were  twitter- 
ing outside  the  window  and  that  the  rhythmic  splash 
of  the  water-wheel  came  to  me  from  the  river,  why 
that  is  only  the  mechanical  action  of  my  memory. 
Nothing  external  existed  for  me  then;  there  existed 
only  a  little  boy  in  whose  breast  two  separate  emo- 
tions were  seething:  anger  and  love;  seething  so 
fiercely  that  my  heart  was  troubled  as  a  glass  of 
water  is  dimmed  when  two  different  liquids  are  poured 
into  it  at  the  same  time.  Such  a  little  boy  existed, 
and  that  boy  was  I ;  I  was  even  sorry,  in  a  way,  for 
myself.  There  existed  also  two  voices,  that  came  to 
me  from  the  next  room  in  a  confused  but  animated 
conversation. 

I  was  still  standing  on  the  same  spot  when  the 
study  door  opened,  and  both  talkers  came  into  the 


186  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

room.  Once  more  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  head,  and 
trembled. 

It  was  my  father's,  and  he  was  tenderly  stroking 
my  hair. 

Tiburtsi  took  my  hands,  and  set  me  upon  his  knees 
right  in  my  father's  presence. 

"Come  and  see  us,"  he  said.  "Your  father  will 
let  you  come  and  say  good-bye  to  my  little  girl.  She 
— she  is  dead." 

Tiburtsi's  voice  trembled,  and  he  winked  his  eyes 
queerly,  but  he  at  once  rose  quickly  to  his  feet,  set 
me  down  on  the  floor,  pulled  himself  together,  and 
left  the  room. 

I  raised  my  eyes  inquiringly  to  my  father's  face. 
Another  man  was  standing  before  me  now,  and  there 
was  something  lovable  about  him  which  I  had  sought 
in  vain  before.  He  was  looking  at  me  with  his  usual 
pensive  gaze,  but  there  was  a  shade  of  surprise  in 
his  eyes,  and  what  might  have  been  a  question.  The 
storm  which  had  just  passed  over  our  heads  seemed 
to  have  dispelled  the  heavy  mist  that  had  lain  on 
my  father's  soul  and  frozen  the  gentle,  kind  expres- 
sion on  his  face.  He  now  seemed  to  recognise  in  me 
the  familiar  features  of  his  own  son. 

I  took  his  hand  trustfully,  and  said : 

"I  didn't  steal  it.     Sonia  lent  it  to  me  herself." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  thoughtfully.  "I  know;  I 
am  guilty  before  you,  boy,  but  you  will  try  to  forget 
it  sometime,  won't  you?" 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  187 

I  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  I  knew  that  he 
would  never  again  look  at  me  with  the  dreadful 
eyes  which  I  had  seen  only  a  few  moments  before, 
and  my  long  pent-up  love  burst  forth  in  a  torrent. 
I  did  not  fear  him  now. 

"Will  you  let  me  go  to  the  hill?"  I  suddenly  asked, 
remembering  Tiburtsi's  invitation. 

"Ye-es — go,  boy,  and  say  good-bye,"  he  answered 
tenderly,  but  with  still  the  same  shade  of  hesitation 
in  his  voice.  "No,  wait  a  minute;  wait  a  minute, 
boy,  please." 

He  went  into  his  bed-room  and  came  back  in  a 
minute  with  a  few  bills  which  he  thrust  into  my 
hand. 

"Give  these  to  Tiburtsi.  Tell  him  that  I  beg  him 
— do  you  understand? — that  I  beg  him  to  accept  this 
money — from  you.  Do  you  understand?  And  say, 
too,"  added  my  father,  "say  that  if  he  knows  any 
one  called  Feodorovich  he  had  better  tell  that  Feo- 
dorovich  to  leave  this  town.  And  now  run  along 
boy,  quickly." 

Panting  and  incoherent,  I  overtook  Tiburtsi  on 
the  hill  and  gave  him  my  father's  message. 

"My  father  begs  you  to —  '  I  said,  and  pressed 
the  money  which  I  had  received  into  his  hand. 

I  did  not  look  at  his  face.  He  took  the  money, 
and  gloomily  listened  to  my  message  concerning 
Feodorovich. 

In  the  crypt,  on  a  bench  in  a  dark  corner,  I  found 


188  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

Marusia  lying.  The  word  death  has  little  meaning 
for  a  child,  but  bitter  tears  choked  me  at  the  sight 
of  her  lifeless  body.  My  little  friend  was  lying  there 
looking  very  serious  and  sad,  and  her  tiny  face  was 
pitifully  drawn.  Her  closed  eyes  were  a  little  sunken 
and  the  blue  circles  around  them  were  darker  than 
before.  Her  little  mouth  was  slightly  open,  and 
wore  an  expression  of  childish  grief.  This  little 
grimace  was  Marusia's  answer  to  our  tears. 

The  Professor  was  standing  at  her  bedside,  in- 
differently shaking  his  head.  The  Grenadier  was 
hammering  in  a  corner,  making  a  coffin  out  of  some 
old  boards  torn  from  the  chapel  roof.  Lavrovski, 
sober  and  with  a  look  of  perfect  understanding, 
was  strewing  Marusia's  body  with  autumn  flowers 
which  he  himself  had  gathered.  Valek  was  lying 
asleep  in  a  corner,  shuddering  all  over  in  his  dreams, 
and  crying  out  restlessly  from  time  to  time. 


X 

CONCLUSION 

Soon  after  this  the  members  of  the  "bad  company" 
dispersed  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth.  There  re- 
mained behind  only  the  Professor,  who  until  his  death 
continued  to  haunt  the  streets  of  the  town,  and 


IN  BAD  COMPANY  189 

Turkevich,  to  whom  my  father  would  give  a  little 
writing  to  do  from  time  to  time.  For  my  part,  I  lost 
not  a  little  blood  in  combats  with  the  Jewish  boys 
who  tormented  the  Professor  by  reminding  him  of 
sharp  and  pointed  instruments. 

The  Grenadier  and  the  other  suspicious  characters 
went  elsewhere  to  seek  their  fortunes.  Tiburtsi  and 
Valek  suddenly  and  completely  vanished,  and  no  one 
could  say  whither  they  had  gone,  as  no  one  knew 
whence  they  had  come. 

The  old  chapel  has  suffered  much  since  then  from 
the  onslaughts  of  Time.  First  the  roof  fell  in,  break- 
ing down  the  ceiling  of  the  crypt.  Then  landslides 
began  to  form  around  the  building,  and  the  place 
grew  more  dismal  than  ever.  The  owls  now  hoot  more 
loudly  than  before  among  its  ruins,  and  the  will-o'- 
the-wisps  on  the  graves  still  glow  with  a  malign  blue 
fire  on  dark  autumn  nights. 

One  grave  only,  surrounded  by  a  little  fence,  grows 
green  with  fresh  grass  every  spring,  and  lies  be- 
decked with  brilliant  flowers. 

Sonia  and  I  used  often  to  visit  this  little  grave,  and 
sometimes  our  father  would  go  with  us.  We  liked  to 
sit  there  in  the  shade  of  the  whispering  birch  trees, 
with  the  town  below  us  shimmering  placidly  in  the 
sunlight.  Here  my  sister  and  I  read  and  dreamed 
together,  sharing  our  first  young  thoughts  and  our 
first  premonitions  of  upright,  winged  youth. 

And  when  at  last  the  time  came  for  us  to  leave  the 


190  IN  BAD  COMPANY 

quiet  city  of  our  birth,  it  was  here,  over  this  little 
grave,  in  the  Springtime  of  life  and  hope,  that  we 
made  our  last  compacts  with  one  another  on  the  last 
day  that  we  spent  at  home. 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

A  TALE  OF  LITTLE  RUSSIA  * 

The  lights  are  out,  the  moon  is  rising. 
The  were-wolf  in  the  wood  is  feeding. 

— Shevchenko. 


LISTEN  to  me,  man;  go  out  of  your  khata  on  a 
clear  night,  or  better  still  walk  to  the  top  of  some 
little  hill,  and  look  well  at  the  sky  and  the  earth. 
Watch  the  bright  moon  climbing  the  heavens,  and 
the  stars  winking  and  twinkling,  and  the  light  clouds 
of  mist  rising  from  the  earth  and  wandering  off 
somewhere  one  behind  the  other  like  belated  travellers 
on  a  night  journey.  The  woods  will  lie  as  if  be- 
witched, listening  to  the  spells  that  rise  from  them 
after  the  midnight  hour,  and  the  sleepy  river  will 
flow  murmuring  by  you,  whispering  to  the  sycamores 

*  Ten  days  after  the  Jewish  New  Year,  which  is  celebrated 
in  the  early  Autumn,  comes  Yom  Kippur,  or  the  day  of  Purifi- 
cation, called  by  the  peasants  of  Little  Russia  the  "Day  of 
Atonement."  A  superstition  exists  among  them  that  on  this 
day  the  Jewish  Devil  Khapun  (the  Snatcher)  carries  off  one 
Jew  each  year  out  of  the  Synagogue.  This  superstition  prob- 
ably had  its  origin  in  the  extremely  impressive  ceremonies 
which  the  Jews  carry  out  at  this  season  with  extraordinary 
zeal  under  the  eyes  of  the  Christian  village  population. 

193 


194          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

on  its  banks.  Then  tell  me  after  that  if  anything, 
if  any  miracle,  is  not  possible  in  this  khata  of  God's 
which  we  call  the  wide  world. 

Everything  is  possible.  Take,  for  instance,  an 
adventure  that  happened  to  a  friend  of  mine,  the 
miller  from  Novokamensk.  If  no  one  has  told  you 
the  story  already,  I  will  tell  it  to  you  now,  only 
please  don't  make  me  swear  that  every  word  is  true. 
I  won't  swear  to  a  thing,  for  though  I  got  it  from 
the  miller  himself,  I  don't  know  to  this  day  whether 
it  really  happened  to  him  or  not. 

But  whether  it's  true  or  not,  I  shall  tell  it  to 
you  as  I  heard  it. 

One  evening  the  miller  was  returning  from  vespers 
in  Novokamensk,  which  was  about  three  versts,  not 
more,  from  his  mill.  For  some  reason  the  miller 
was  a  little  out  of  temper,  though  he  himself  could 
not  have  said  why.  Everything  had  gone  well  in  the 
church,  and  our  miller,  who  could  shout  with  the 
best,  had  read  the  prayers  so  loudly  and  so  fast 
that  the  good  people  had  been  astonished. 

"How  he  does  bawl,  that  son  of  a  gun !"  they  had 
exclaimed  with  the  deepest  respect.  "You  can't  un- 
derstand one  word  he  says.  He's  a  regular  wheel, 
he  is  ;  he  turns  and  spins  and  you  know  he  has  spokes 
in  him,  but  you  can't  see  a  single  one,  no  matter 
how  closely  you  look.  His  reading  sounds  like  an 
iron  wheel  rumbling  over  a  stony  road ;  you  can't 
catch  a  word  of  it  to  save  your  life." 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          195 

The  miller  heard  what  the  people  were  saying 
among  themselves,  and  it  made  him  glad.  He  knew 
how  to  work  for  the  glory  of  God,  he  did!  He 
swung  his  tongue  as  a  lusty  lad  swings  a  flail  on  a 
threshing  floor,  till  he  was  parched  to  the  bottom  of 
his  throat  and  his  eyes  were  popping  out  of  his 
head. 

The  priest  took  him  home  with  him  after  church, 
gave  him  tea,  and  set  a  full  bottle  of  herb  brandy 
before  him,  and  this  was  afterwards  taken  away 
empty.  The  moon  was  floating  high  above  the  fields, 
and  was  staring  down  into  the  swift  little  Stony 
River  when  the  miller  left  the  priest's  house  and 
started  home  to  his  mill. 

Some  of  the  villagers  were  already  asleep ;  some 
were  sitting  in  their  khatas  eating  their  suppers  by 
the  light  of  a  tallow-dip,  and  some  had  been  tempted 
out  into  the  street  by  the  warm,  clear  autumn 
night.  The  old  people  were  sitting  at  the  doors  of 
their  khatas,  but  the  lasses  and  lads  had  gone  out 
under  the  hedges  where  the  heavy  shade  of  the  cherry 
trees  hid  them  from  view,  and  only  their  low  voices 
could  be  heard  in  various  places,  with  an  occasional 
peal  of  suppressed  laughter,  and  now  and  then  the 
incautious  kiss  of  a  young  couple.  Yes,  many  things 
can  happen  in  the  dense  shade  of  a  cherry  tree  on 
such  a  clear,  warm  night ! 

But  though  the  miller  could  not  see  the  villagers, 
they  could  see  him  very  well  because  he  was  walking 


196          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

down  the  middle  of  the  street  in  the  full  light  of  the 
moon.  And  so  they  occasionally  called  out  to  him  as 
he  passed: 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Miller!  Aren't  you  coming 
from  the  priest's?  Is  it  at  his  house  you  have  been 
such  a  long  time?" 

Every  one  knew  that  he  could  not  have  been  any- 
where else,  but  the  miller  liked  the  question,  and, 
slackening  his  pace,  he  would  answer  a  little  proudly 
each  time: 

"Yes,  yes,  I've  made  him  a  little  visit !"  and  then 
he  would  walk  on  more  puffed-up  than  ever. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  of  the  people  sat  as 
silent  as  mice  under  the  eaves  of  their  houses,  and 
only  hoped  he  would  go  by  quickly  and  not  see  where 
they  were  hidden.  But  the  miller  was  not  the  man 
to  pass  or  forget  people  who  owed  him  for  flour  or 
for  grinding,  or  who  simply  had  borrowed  money 
from  him.  No  use  for  them  to  sit  out  of  sight  in  the 
dark,  as  silent  as  if  they  had  taken  a  mouthful  of 
water !  The  miller  would  stop  in  front  of  them  every 
time  and  say: 

"Good  evening!  Are  you  there?  You  can  hold 
your  tongues  or  not  as  you  like,  but  get  ready  to 
pay  me  your  debts,  because  your  time  will  be  up  early 
to-morrow  morning.  And  I  won't  wait  for  the 
money,  I  promise  you!" 

And  then  he  would  walk  on  down  the  street  with  his 
shadow  running  beside  him,  so  black,  so  very  black, 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          197 

that  the  miller,  who  was  a  bookman  and  always  ready 
to  use  his  brain  if  need  be,  said  to  himself : 

"Goodness,  how  black  my  shadow  is !  It  really  is 
strange.  When  a  man's  overcoat  is  whiter  than 
flour  why  should  his  shadow  be  blacker  than  soot?" 

At  this  point  in  his  reflections  he  reached  the  inn 
kept  by  Yankel  the  Jew,  which  stood  on  a  little  hill 
not  far  from  the  village.  The  Sabbath  had  been 
over  since  sunset,  but  the  innkeeper  was  not  at  home ; 
only  Kharko  was  there,  the  Jew's  servant,  who  took 
his  place  on  Sabbaths  and  feast-days.  Kharko  lit  his 
master's  candles  for  him  and  collected  his  debts  on 
each  Hebrew  holiday,  for  the  Jews,  as  every  one 
knows,  strictly  observe  the  rules  of  their  faith.  Do 
you  think  a  Jew  would  light  a  candle  or  touch  money 
on  a  holiday  ?  Not  he !  It  would  be  a  sin.  Kharko 
the  servant  did  all  that  for  the  innkeeper,  and  he,  his 
wife,  and  his  children,  only  followed  him  sharply 
with  their  eyes  to  see  that  no  stray  five  or  ten  copeck 
pieces  wandered  into  his  pocket  by  accident  instead 
of  into  the  till. 

"They're  cunning  people !"  thought  the  miller  to 
himself.  "Oh,  they're  very  cunning!  They  know 
how  to  please  their  God  and  catch  every  penny  at  the 
same  time.  Yes,  they're  clever  people,  far  cleverer 
than  we  are,  there's  no  use  denying  it !" 

He  paused  on  the  little  patch  of  earth  at  the  inn 
door  trampled  hard  by  the  numberless  human  feet 


198          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

that  jostled  each  other  there  every  week  day  and 
shouted : 

"Yankel!  Hey,  Yankel!  Are  you  at  home  or 
not?" 

"He  isn't  at  home,  can't  you  see  that?"  answered 
the  servant  from  behind  the  counter. 

"Where  is  he,  then?" 

"Where  should  he  be?  In  the  city  of  course,"  an- 
swered the  servant.  "Don't  you  know  what  to-day 
is?" 

"No,  what  is  it?" 

"Yom  Kippur,  the  Day  of  Atonement !" 

"Ah,  so  that's  the  explanation !"  thought  the  mil- 
ler. 

And  I  must  tell  you  that  even  though  Kharko  was 
a  common  servant  and  the  servant  of  a  Jew  at  that, 
he  had  been  a  soldier,  and  could  write,  and  was  a  very 
proud  person.  He  liked  to  turn  up  his  nose  and  give 
himself  airs,  especially  before  the  miller.  He  could 
read  in  church  no  worse  than  the  miller  himself,  ex- 
cept that  he  had  a  cracked  voice  and  talked  through 
his  nose.  In  reading  the  prayers  he  always  man- 
aged to  keep  up  with  Philip  the  miller,  but  in  read- 
ing the  Acts  he  was  left  far  behind.  But  he  never 
yielded  an  inch.  If  the  miller  said  one  thing,  he  al- 
ways said  another.  If  the  miller  said  "I  don't  know," 
the  servant  would  answer  "I  do."  A  disagreeable 
fellow  he  was !  So  now  he  was  delighted  because  he 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          199 

had  said  something  that  had  made  the  miller  scratch 
his  head  under  his  hat. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  even  yet  what  day  this 
is?" 

"How  can  I  keep  track  of  every  Jewish  holiday? 
Am  I  a  servant  of  Jews?"  retorted  the  miller  angrily. 

"Every  holiday,  indeed!  That's  just  it;  this  isn't 
like  every  holiday.  They  only  have  one  like  this 
every  year.  And  let  me  tell  you  something :  no  other 
people  in  the  whole  world  have  a  holiday  like  this 
one." 

"You  don't  say  so  !" 

"You've  heard  about  Khapun,  I  suppose?" 

"Aha !" 

The  miller  only  whistled.  Of  course,  he  might  have 
guessed  it !  And  he  peeped  in  through  the  window  of 
the  Jewish  khata.  The  floor  was  strewn  with  hay 
and  straw;  in  two  and  three  branched  candlesticks 
slender  tallow  candles  were  burning;  he  could  hear 
a  humming  that  seemed  to  come  from  several  huge, 
lusty  bees.  It  was  Yankel's  young  second  wife  and 
a  few  Jewish  children  mumbling  and  humming  their 
unintelligible  prayers  with  closed  eyes.  There  was, 
however,  something  remarkable  about  these  prayers ; 
it  seemed  as  if  each  one  of  these  Jews  were  possessed 
by  some  alien  creature,  sitting  there  in  him  weeping 
and  lamenting,  remembering  something  and  praying 
for  something.  But  to  whom  were  they  praying,  and 
for  what  were  they  asking?  No  one  could  have  said. 


200          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

Only  whatever  it  was,  it  seemed  to  have  no  connec- 
tion either  with  the  inn  or  with  money. 

The  miller  was  filled  with  pity  and  sadness  and 
dread  as  he  listened  to  the  prayers  of  the  Jews.  He 
glanced  at  the  servant,  who  could  also  hear  the  hum- 
ming through  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  said: 

"They're  praying!  And  so  you  say  Yankel  has 
gone  to  the  city?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  did  he  want  to  do  that  for?  Suppos- 
ing Khapun  should  happen  to  get  him?" 

"I  don't  know  why  he  went,"  answered  the  serv- 
ant. "If  it  had  been  me,  though  I've  fought  with 
every  heathen  tribe  under  the  sun  and  got  a  medal 
for  it,  no  silver  roubles  on  earth  could  have  tempted 
me  away  from  here.  I  should  have  stayed  in  my 
khata ;  Khapun  would  hardly  snatch  him  out  of  his 
hut." 

"And  why  not  ?  If  he  wanted  to  catch  a  man  he'd 
get  him  in  his  khata  as  well  as  anywhere  else,  I 
suppose." 

"You  think  he  would,  do  you?  If  you  wanted  to 
buy  a  hat  or  a  pair  of  gloves,  where  would  you  go  for 
them?" 

"Where  should  I  go  but  to  a  store?" 

"And  why  would  you  go  to  a  store?" 

"What  a  question !  Because  there  are  plenty  of 
hats  there." 

"Very  well.     And  if  you  looked  into  the  synagogue 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          201 

now  you  would  see  Jews  a-plenty  in  there.  They  are 
jostling  one  another,  and  weeping  and  screaming  so 
that  the  whole  city  from  one  end  to  another  can  hear 
their  lamentations.  Where  the  gnats  are  there  the 
birds  go.  Khapun  would  be  a  fool  if  he  trotted  about 
hunting  and  rummaging  through  all  the  woods  and 
villages.  He  has  only  one  day  in  the  year,  and  do 
you  think  he  would  waste  it  like  that  ?  Some  villages 
have  Jews  in  them,  and  some  haven't." 
"Well,  there  aren't  many  that  haven't !" 
"I  know  there  aren't  many  that  haven't,  but  there 
are  some.  And  then,  he  can  pick  and  choose  so  much 
better  out  of  a  crowd." 

Both  men  were  silent.  The  miller  was  thinking 
that  the  servant  had  caught  him  again  with  his 
clever  tongue,  and  he  was  feeling  uncomfortable  for 
the  second  time.  The  humming  and  weeping  and 
lamenting  of  the  Jews  still  came  to  them  through 
the  windows  of  the  hut. 

"Perhaps  they  are  praying  for  the  old  man?" 
"Perhaps  they  are.    Anything  is  possible." 
"Does  it  really  ever  happen?"  asked  the  miller, 
wishing  to  tease  the  servant,  and  at  the  same  time 
feeling  a  twinge  of  human  pity  for  the  Jew.     "Per- 
haps it's  only  gossip.     You  know  how  people  will 
gabble  silly  nonsense,  and  how  every  one  believes 
them." 

These  words  displeased  Kharko. 

"Yes,  people  do  gabble  nonsense ;  like  you,  for  in- 


202          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

stance !"  he  answered.  "Do  you  think  I  invented  the 
story  myself,  or  my  father  or  my  father-in-law,  when 
every  Christian  knows  it  is  true?" 

"Well,  but  have  you  seen  it  happen  yourself?" 
asked  the  miller  irritably,  stung  by  the  servant's 
scornful  words. 

Now  you  must  know  that  when  the  miller  was  in 
a  passion  he  sometimes  said  that  he  didn't  believe 
in  the  Devil  himself,  and  wouldn't,  until  he  saw  him 
sitting  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  And  he  was  flying 
into  a  passion  now. 

"Have  you  seen  it  happen  yourself?"  he  repeated. 
"If  you  haven't,  don't  say  it's  true,  do  you  hear?" 

Then  the  servant  hung  his  head,  and  even  went  so 
far  as  to  cough.  Though  he  had  been  a  soldier  and 
was  a  lively  fellow,  he  could  sing  very  small  at  times. 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  it  myself,  I  won't  tell  you  a 
lie.  And  you,  Mr.  Miller,  have  you  ever  seen  the  city 
of  Kiev?" 

"No,  I  haven't:  I  won't  tell  you  a  lie,  either." 

"But  Kiev  is  there  just  the  same!" 

When  he  heard  it  put  as  clearly  as  that,  the  mil- 
ler's eyes  nearly  popped  out  of  his  head. 

"Whatever  is  true,  is  true,"  he  assented.  "Yes, 
Kiev  is  there,  though  I  haven't  seen  it.  One  certainly 
ought  to  believe  what  honest  folks  say.  You  see,  I 
should  like  to — I  want  to  ask  you  who  told  you  the 
story?" 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          203 

"Who  told  it  to  me?  Bah!  Who  told  you  about 
Kiev?" 

"Tut,  tut,  what  a  tongue  you  have !  It's  sharper 
than  a  razor ;  may  it  shrivel  in  your  head !" 

"There's  no  reason  why  my  tongue  should  shrivel 
in  my  head.  You'd  better  believe  what  people  say 
when  every  one  says  it.  If  every  one  says  it,  it  must 
be  true.  If  it  weren't  true,  every  one  wouldn't  say  it ; 
only  magpies  like  you  would  say  it,  so  there !" 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!  For  Heaven's  sake  stop  a  min- 
ute !  You  rattle  out  your  words  like  a  pestle  in  a 
mortar.  I  see  I  was  on  the  wrong  track,  but  I  only 
wanted  to  know  how  the  story  began." 

"It  began  because  it  happens  every  year.  What- 
ever happens  people  will  talk  about;  what  doesn't 
happen  isn't  worth  talking  about." 

"What  a  fellow  you  are !  Wait  a  minute,  let  me 
catch  your  prattle  by  the  tail ;  you  whirl  like  a  wild 
mare  in  a  bog.  Only  just  tell  me  what  really  takes 
place,  that's  all!" 

"Eh  hey,  so  you  don't  know,  I  see,  what  takes 
place  on  the  Day  of  Atonement?" 

"I  used  to  know,  and  that's  why  I  didn't  ask.  I 
used  to  hear  people  chattering  like  you  about 
Khapun,  Khapun,  but  what  the  sense  of  it  was  I 
never  could  make  out." 

"Then  you  ought  to  have  said  so  at  once,  and  I 
should  have  told  you  long  ago.  I  don't  like  proud 
people  who,  when  they  want  a  drink  of  gorelka, 


204          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

say  they'd  drink  water  if  it  didn't  taste  so  bad.  If 
you  want  to  know  what  happens  I'll  tell  you,  because 
I've  been  about  the  world  and  am  not  a  stay-at- 
home  like  you.  I  have  lived  in  the  city  for  more 
than  a  year,  and  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever 
worked  for  a  Jew." 

"And  isn't  it  a  sin  to  work  for  a  Jew?"  asked  the 
miller. 

"It  would  be  for  any  one  else;  a  soldier  can  do 
anything.  We  get  a  paper  given  to  us  that  says  so." 

"Can  a  piece  of  paper  really — 

Then  the  soldier  began  telling  the  miller  very 
affably  all  about  Khapun  and  how  he  carries  off  one 
Jew  a  year  on  this  day. 

And  if  you  don't  know  it,  I  might  as  well  tell  you 
that  Khapun  is  a  regular  Hebrew  devil.  He  is  just 
like  ours  in  every  way,  black,  with  horns  just  like 
him,  and  he  has  wings  like  a  huge  bat ;  the  only  dif- 
ference is  that  he  wears  ringlets  and  a  skull  cap,  and 
only  has  power  over  Jews.  If  a  Christian  meets 
him  at  midnight  in  the  desert,  or  even  on  the  shore  of 
a  pond,  he  runs  away  like  a  scary  dog.  But  he  can 
do  what  he  likes  with  the  Jews,  so  he  catches  one 
every  year  and  carries  him  away. 

And  Yom  Kippur,  the  Day  of  Atonement,  is  the 
day  fixed  for  him  to  make  his  choice.  Long  before 
that  day  comes  the  Jews  weep  and  tear  their  clothes, 
and  even  put  ashes  out  of  their  stoves  on  their  heads 
for  some  reason  or  other.  On  the  evening  of  the  day 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          205 

they  bathe  in  the  rivers  and  ponds,  and  as  soon  as 
the  sun  goes  down  the  poor  wretches  all  go  to  their 
churches,  and  you  never  heard  in  your  life  such 
screams  as  come  from  there  then !  They  all  bawl  at 
the  top  of  their  lungs,  keeping  their  eyes  shut  tight 
with  terror  all  the  time.  Then,  as  soon  as  the  sky 
grows  dark  and  the  evening  star  comes  out,  Khapun 
comes  flying  from  where  he  lives,  and  hovers  over  the 
church.  He  beats  on  the  windows  with  his  wings,  and 
looks  in  to  choose  his  prey.  But  when  midnight 
comes,  that's  when  the  Jews  begin  to  get  really 
frightened.  They  light  all  the  candles  to  give  them- 
selves courage,  fall  down  on  the  floor,  and  begin  to 
scream  as  if  some  one  were  cutting  their  throats. 
And  while  they  are  lying  there  squirming  Kha- 
pun flies  into  the  room  in  the  shape  of  a  great 
crow,  and  they  all  feel  the  cold  wind  of  his  wings 
blowing  across  their  hearts.  The  Jew  whom  Kha- 
pun has  already  spotted  through  the  window 
feels  the  devil's  claws  sinking  into  his  back.  Ugh! 
It  makes  one's  flesh  creep  even  to  tell  of  it,  so 
just  think  what  the  poor  Jew  must  feel!  Of  course 
he  yells  as  loud  as  ever  he  can.  But  who  can  hear 
him  when  all  the  rest  of  them  are  yelling  like  lunatics, 
too?  And  maybe  one  of  his  neighbours  does  hear 
him,  and  is  only  glad  it  isn't  himself  who  is  in  such 
a  sorry  plight. 

Kharko  himself  had  heard  more  than  once  the  piti- 
ful, clear,  long-drawn  notes  of  a  trumpet  floating 


206          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

out  over  the  city.  It  was  a  novice  in  the  synagogue 
trumpeting  out  a  farewell  call  to  his  unfortunate 
brother,  while  the  rest  of  the  Jews  were  putting  on 
their  shoes  in  the  entry — Jews  always  go  into  church 
in  their  stocking  feet — or  standing  in  little  groups  in 
the  moonlight,  whispering  together  on  tip-toe,  star- 
ing up  at  the  sky.  And  when  the  last  man  has  gone, 
one  lonely  pair  of  shoes  is  left  lying  in  the  entry, 
waiting  for  its  owner.  Ah,  those  shoes  will  have  to 
wait  a  long  time,  for  at  that  very  moment  Khapun  is 
flying  with  their  owner  high  over  woods  and  fields, 
over  valleys  and  hills  and  plains,  flapping  his  wings, 
and  keeping  well  out  of  sight  of  Christian  eyes.  The 
accursed  one  is  glad  when  the  night  is  cloudy  and 
dark.  But  when  it  is  clear  and  still  like  to-night, 
with  the  moon  shining  as  bright  as  day,  the  devil's 
work  may  very  well  come  to  naught. 

"And  why?"  asked  the  miller,  trembling  lest  the 
talkative  Kharko  should  begin  poking  insults  at  him 
again.  But  this  time  the  servant  answered  quietly 
enough : 

"Well,  you  see,  any  Christian,  no  matter  if  he's 
stupid,  like  you,  can  call  to  the  devil :  'Drop  it ! 
It  is  mine !'  and  Khapun  will  drop  the  Jew  at  once. 
The  devil  will  flutter  his  wings,  and  fly  away  with  a 
shrill  cry  like  a  wounded  hawk,  to  be  left  without 
prey  for  a  year.  The  Jew  will  fall  to  the  ground. 
It  will  be  lucky  for  him  if  he  wasn't  too  high  up  and 
if  he  falls  into  a  bog  or  some  other  soft  spot.  If 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          207 

he  doesn't,  no  one  will  profit  by  his  fall,  neither 
he  nor  the  devil." 

"So  that's  how  it  is  !"  said  the  miller,  staring  nerv- 
ously at  the  sky,  in  which  the  moon  was  shining  with 
all  its  might.  The  heavens  were  clear;  only  one 
little  cloudlet  like  a  bit  of  black  down  was  flying 
swiftly  along  between  the  moon  and  the  wood  that 
shrouded  the  river  bank.  It  was  a  cloud,  of  course, 
but  one  thing  about  it  seemed  strange  to  the  miller. 
Not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stirring,  the  leaves  on  the 
bushes  were  motionless  as  if  in  a  trance,  and  yet  the 
cloud  was  flying  like  a  bird  straight  toward  the 
city. 

"Come  here ;  let  me  show  you  something !"  the  mil- 
ler called  to  the  servant. 

Kharko  came  out  of  the  inn,  and  leaning  against 
the  door  post,  said  calmly: 

"Well,  what  is  it?  A  fine  thing  you  have  found 
to  show  me !  That's  a  cloud,  that  is ;  let  it  alone !" 

"Take  another  look  at  it !  Is  there  any  wind  blow- 
ing?" 

"Well,  well,  well !  That  is  funny !"  said  the  serv- 
ant, perplexed.  "It's  making  straight  for  the  city, 
too." 

And  both  men  scratched  their  heads  and  craned 
their  necks. 

The  same  humming  sounds  came  to  their  ears 
through  the  window  as  before;  the  miller  caught  a 
glimpse  of  lugubrious  yellow  faces,  closed  eyes,  and 


208          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

motionless  lips.  The  little  Jews  were  crying  and 
wriggling,  and  once  more  the  miller  seemed  to  see  an 
alien  presence  in  them  weeping  and  praying  for 
something  unknown,  long  lost,  and  already  half 
forgotten. 

"Well,  I  must  be  going  home,"  said  the  miller, 
collecting  his  wits.  "And  yet  I  wanted  to  pay  Yankel 
a  few  copecks." 

"That's  all  right.  I  can  take  them  for  him,"  said 
the  servant,  without  looking  at  the  miller. 

But  the  miller  pretended  not  to  have  heard  this 
last  remark.  The  sum  was  not  so  small  that  he 
cared  to  intrust  it  to  a  servant,  much  less  to  a  vaga- 
bond soldier.  With  a  sum  like  that  the  fellow  might 
easily  kick  up  his  heels,  as  the  saying  is,  and  run 
away,  not  only  out  of  the  village,  but  even  out  of 
the  District.  If  he  did  that,  look  for  the  wind  in 
the  fields,  you  would  find  it  sooner  than  Kharko ! 

"Good  night!"  said  the  miller  at  last. 

"Good  night !  And  I'll  take  the  money  if  you'll 
give  it  to  me !" 

"Don't  bother ;  I  can  give  it  to  him  myself." 

"Do  as  you  like.  But  if  I  took  it  you  wouldn't  be 
bothered  about  it  any  more.  Well,  well,  it's  time  to 
close  the  inn.  You're  the  last  dog  that'll  be  round 
to-night,  I'll  be  bound." 

The  servant  scratched  his  back  on  the  door  post, 
whistled  not  very  agreeably  after  the  miller,  and 
bolted  the  door  on  which  were  depicted  in  white  paint 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          209 

a  quart  measure,  a  wine-glass,  and  a  tin  mug.  Mean- 
while the  miller  descended  the  hill,  and  walked  down 
the  road  in  his  long  white  overcoat,  with  his  coal- 
black  shadow  running  beside  him  as  before. 

But  the  miller  was  not  thinking  of  his  shadow  now. 
His  thoughts  were  of  something  far  different. 


II 


The  miller  had  not  gone  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  when  he  heard  a  rustling  and  fluttering  that 
sounded  like  two  large  birds  taking  flight  from  be- 
hind the  hedge.  But  it  was  not  a  pair  of  birds;  it 
was  only  a  lad  and  a  lass,  startled  by  the  miller's  sud- 
den appearance  out  of  the  darkness.  The  lad,  it 
seemed,  was  not  to  be  frightened.  Creeping  into 
the  shadows  so  that  the  two  white  figures  were  barely 
visible  under  the  cherry  trees,  he  put  his  arm  firmly 
around  the  girl,  and  continued  his  low-toned  dis- 
course. A  few  yards  farther  on  the  miller  heard 
something  that  halted  him  with  annoyance. 

"Hey,  you  there !  I  don't  know  what  your  name 
is —  "  he  cried.  "But  you  might  wait  until  I  had 
gone  by  to  do  your  kissing.  Your  smacks  can  be 
heard  all  over  the  village." 

And  he  walked  right  up  to  the  hedge. 

"You  cur  you,  what  do  you  mean  by  poking 
your  nose  into  other  people's  affairs?"  a  lad  an- 


210          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

swered  out  of  the  darkness.  "Wait  a  minute,  I'll 
kiss  you  on  the  nose  with  my  fist !  I'll  teach  you  to 
interfere  with  people !" 

"Come,  come,  never  mind !"  said  the  miller,  step- 
ping back.  "One  would  think  you  were  doing  some- 
thing important !  You're  a  bad  lad,  you  are,  to 
smack  a  girl  like  that ;  you  make  a  man  envious.  Oh, 
what  are  people  coming  to!" 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  thought  a  bit, 
scratched  his  head,  and  finally  turned  aside,  threw  his 
leg  over  the  hedge,  and  crossed  a  field  to  a  widow's 
cottage  that  stood  a  little  way  back  from  the  road 
in  the  shade  of  a  tall  poplar  tree. 

The  khata  was  a  tiny,  lop-sided  affair,  crumbling 
and  falling  to  pieces.  Its  one  little  window  was  so 
minute  that  it  would  have  been  almost  invisible  had 
the  night  been  at  all  dark.  But  now  the  whole  cot- 
tage was  glowing  in  the  moonlight ;  its  straw  roof 
was  shining  like  gold,  its  walls  seemed  to  be  made  of 
silver,  and  the  little  window  was  blinking  like  a  dark 
eye. 

No  light  shone  behind  it.  Probably  the  old  woman 
and  her  daughter  had  no  fuel  and  nothing  to  cook  for 
supper. 

The  miller  paused  a  moment,  then  knocked  twice 
at  the  window  and  went  a  few  steps  aside. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  before  two  plump  girlish 
arms  were  wound  tightly  around  his  neck,  and  some- 
thing glowed  among  his  whiskers  that  felt  very  much 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          211 

like  two  lips  pressed  to  his  mouth.  Hey  ho,  what 
more  is  there  to  tell !  If  you  have  ever  been  kissed 
like  that  you  know  yourself  how  it  feels.  If  you 
haven't,  it's  no  use  trying  to  tell  you. 

"Oh,  Philipko,  my  darling  for  whom  I  have 
longed !"  crooned  the  girl.  "You  have  come,  you 
have  come !  And  I  have  been  waiting  so  wearily  for 
you.  I  thought  I  should  parch  up  with  longing,  like 
grass  without  water." 

"Eh  hey,  she  hasn't  parched  up,  though,  thank 
God !"  thought  the  miller,  as  he  pressed  the  girl's  not 
emaciated  form  to  his  breast.  "Thank  God,  she  is 
all  right  yet !" 

"And  when  shall  we  have  the  wedding,  Philip?" 
asked  the  girl  with  her  hands  still  lying  on  Philip's 
shoulders,  while  she  devoured  him  with  burning  eyes 
as  dark  as  an  autumn  night.  "Saint  Philip's  day 
will  soon  be  here." 

This  speech  was  less  to  the  miller's  liking  than  the 
girl's  kisses. 

"So  that's  what  she's  driving  at!"  thought  he. 
"Ah,  Philip,  Philip,  now  you're  going  to  catch  it !" 

But  he  summoned  all  the  courage  he  had,  and, 
turning  his  eyes  away,  answered: 

"What  a  hurry  you're  in,  Galya,  I  declare !  Think- 
ing about  the  wedding  already,  are  you?  How  can 
we  get  married  when  I  am  a  miller  and  may  soon  be 
the  richest  man  in  the  village,  and  you  are  only  a 
poor  widow's  daughter?" 


212          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

The  girl  staggered  back  at  these  words  as  if  a 
snake  had  bitten  her.  She  jumped  away  from  Philip 
and  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

"But  I  thought — oh,  my  poor  head — then  why 
did  you  knock  at  the  window,  you  wicked  man?" 

"Eh  hey !"  answered  the  miller.  "You  ask  why  I 
knocked.  Why  shouldn't  I  knock  when  your  mother 
owes  me  money?  And  then  you  come  jumping  out 
and  begin  to  kiss  me.  What  can  I  do?  I  know 
how  to  kiss  as  well  as  any  man — 

And  he  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  her  again, 
but  the  moment  he  touched  the  girl's  body  she  started 
as  if  an  insect  had  stung  her. 

"Get  away !"  she  screamed,  so  angrily  that  the  mil- 
ler fell  back  a  step.  "I'm  not  a  rouble  bill  that  you 
can  lay  your  hands  on  as  if  I  belonged  to  you.  If 
you  come  back  again  I'll  warm  you  up  so  that  you'll 
forget  how  to  make  love  for  three  years." 

The  miller  was  taken  aback. 

"What  a  little  firebrand  it  is !  Do  you  think  I'm  a 
Jew  that  you  howl  at  me  so  hatefully?" 

"If  you're  not  a  Jew,  then  what  are  you?  You 
charge  half  a  rouble  for  every  rouble  you  lend,  and 
then  you  come  to  me  for  interest  besides !  Get  away, 
I  tell  you,  you  horrid  brute !" 

"Well,  my  girl !"  said  the  miller,  nervously  covering 
his  face  with  his  hand  as  if  she  had  really  hit  him  with 
her  fist.  "I  see  it's  no  use  for  a  sensible  man  to  talk 
to  you.  Go  and  send  your  mother  to  me." 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          213 

But  the  old  woman  had  already  come  out  of  the 
hut,  and  was  making  a  low  curtsey  to  the  miller. 
Philip  enjoyed  this  more  than  he  had  the  words  of  the 
girl.  He  stuck  his  arms  akimbo,  and  the  head  of  his 
black  shadow  rubbed  so  hard  against  the  wall  that  he 
wondered  his  hat  didn't  come  off. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  come  for,  old  woman?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  how  should  I  not  know,  poor  wretch  that  I 
am!  You  have  come  for  my  money." 

"Ha,  ha,  not  your  money,  old  woman!"  the  miller 
laughed.  "I'm  not  a  robber;  I  don't  come  at  night 
and  take  money  that  isn't  mine." 

"Yes,  you  have  come  for  money  that  isn't  yours !" 
retorted  Galya,  angrily  falling  upon  the  miller.  "You 
have  come  for  it !" 

"Crazy  girl !"  exclaimed  the  miller,  stepping  back. 
"Upon  my  word  there  isn't  another  girl  in  the  whole 
village  as  crazy  as  you  are.  And  not  in  the  village 
alone,  in  the  whole  District.  Just  think  a  minute 
what  you  have  said !  If  it  weren't  for  your  mother, 
who  probably  wouldn't  testify  against  you,  I'd  have 
you  up  in  court  before  Christmas  for  cheating 
me.  Come,  think  a  little  what  you're  doing,  girl !" 

"Why  need  I  think  when  I'm  doing  right?" 

"How  can  it  be  right  for  the  old  woman  to  borrow 
money  from  me  and  not  pay?" 

"You  lie  !  You  lie  like  a  dog !  You  came  courting 
me  when  you  were  still  a  workman  at  the  mill;  you 


214          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

came  to  our  khata  and  never  said  a  word  about  want- 
ing anything  in  return.  And  then,  when  your  uncle 
died  and  you  came  to  be  a  miller  yourself,  you  col- 
lected the  whole  debt,  and  now  even  that  won't  sat- 
isfy you !" 

"And  the  flour?" 

"Well,  what  about  the  flour?  How  much  do  you 
ask  for  it?" 

"Sixty  copecks  a  pood,  not  less  !  No  one  would  let 
you  have  it  cheaper  than  that,  no,  not  if  you  threw 
your  precious  self  in  with  it  into  the  bargain." 

"And  how  much  have  you  already  collected  from 
us?" 

"Tut,  tut,  how  she  does  talk !  You've  a  tongue  in 
your  head  as  bad  as  Kharko's,  girl.  I'll  answer  that 
by  asking  you  for  the  interest.  Have  you  paid  it?" 

But  Galya  was  silent.  It  is  often  that  way  with 
girls.  They  talk  and  talk  and  rattle  along  like  a  mill 
with  all  its  stones  grinding,  and  then  they  suddenly 
stop  dead.  You'd  think  they  had  run  short  of  water. 
That's  how  Galya  did.  She  burst  into  a  flood  of 
bitter  tears,  and  went  away  wiping  her  eyes  on  the 
wide  sleeve  of  her  blouse. 

"There  now !"  said  the  miller,  a  little  confused  but 
satisfied  in  his  heart.  "That's  what  comes  of  attack- 
ing people.  If  you  hadn't  begun  shouting  at  me 
there  wouldn't  have  been  anything  to  cry  for." 

"Hold  your  tongue !  Hold  your  tongue,  you  foul 
creature !" 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          S15 

"Hold  your  own  tongue,  if  that's  what  you  think !" 

"Be  quiet,  be  quiet,  my  honey!"  the  mother  joined 
•in,  heaving  a  deep  sigh.  The  old  woman  was  evi- 
dently afraid  of  irritating  the  miller;  it  was  clear 
she  could  not  pay  him  now  that  her  time  was  up. 

"I  won't  be  quiet,  mother,  I  won't,  I  won't!"  an- 
swered the  girl,  as  if  all  the  wheels  in  her  mill  had 
begun  turning  again.  "I  won't  be  quiet ;  and  if  you 
want  to  know,  I'm  going  to  scratch  out  his  eyes  so 
that  he  won't  dare  to  get  me  gossiped  about  for  noth- 
ing, and  come  knocking  at  my  window  and  kissing  me! 
Tell  me  what  you  meant  by  knocking,  or  I'll  catch 
you  by  the  top-knot  without  stopping  to  ask  if  you 
are  a  miller  and  a  rich  man  or  not.  You  never  used 
to  be  proud  like  that ;  you  came  courting  me  your- 
self and  pouring  out  tender  words.  But  now  you 
hold  your  nose  so  high  that  your  hat  won't  stay  on 
your  head !" 

"Oi,  honey,  honey,  do  be  quiet,  my  poor  dear  little 
orphan !"  begged  the  old  woman  with  another  griev- 
ous sigh.  "And  you,  Mr.  Miller,  don't  think  ill  of 
the  poor  silly  girl.  Young  hearts  and  young  wis- 
dom are  mates ;  they  are  like  new  beer  in  a  ferment. 
They  boil  and  foam,  but  if  you  will  let  them  stand 
awhile  they  will  grow  sweet  to  a  man's  taste." 

"What  do  I  care?"  answered  the  miller.  "I  don't 
ask  for  either  bitter  or  sweet  from  her,  because  you 
are  not  my  equals,  either  of  you.  Give  me  the 


216          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

money,  old  woman,  and  I'll  never  come  near  your 
khata  again." 

"Okh,  but  we  have  no  money!  Wait  a  little;  we 
will  work  for  some,  my  daughter  and  I,  and  then  we 
will  pay  you.  Oh,  misery  me,  Philipko,  dearie,  what 
a  time  I  do  have  with  you  and  with  her !  You  know 
yourself  I  have  loved  you  like  a  son ;  I  never  thought, 
I  never  guessed,  you  would  cast  my  debts  in  my  teeth 
and  with  the  interest,  too !  Oh,  if  I  could  only  get  my 
daughter  married  !  A  good  husband  would  be  easy  to 
find,  but  she  won't  have  any  one.  Ever  since  you 
have  come  courting  the  girl  you  seem  to  have  cast 
a  spell  over  her.  'I'd  rather  be  buried  in  the  cold 
ground  than  marry  any  one  else,'  she  says.  I  was 
foolish  ever  to  let  you  stay  here  until  dawn.  Oi, 
misery  me !" 

"But  what  can  I  do?"  asked  the  miller.  "You 
don't  understand  these  things,  old  woman.  A  rich 
man  has  many  calls  on  his  money.  I  pay  the  Jew 
what  I  owe  him ;  now  you  must  pay  me." 

"Wait  just  one  month!" 

The  miller  rubbed  his  head  and  reflected.  He 
felt  a  little  sorry  for  the  old  woman,  and  Galya's 
embroidered  blouse  was  gleaming  in  the  distance. 

"Very  well,  then,  only  I'll  have  to  add  thirty 
copecks  to  the  debt  for  interest.  You'd  better  pay 
at  once." 

"What  can  I  do?  It's  my  fate  not  to  pay,  I  can 
bee  that." 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          217 

"All  right,  I'll  leave  it  at  that.  I'm  not  a 
Jew.  I'm  a  decent  sort  of  a  fellow.  Any  one  else 
would  have  charged  you  forty  copecks  at  least,  I 
know  that  for  certain,  and  I'm  only  asking  you 
twenty,  and  shall  wait  till  St.  Philip's  day  for  the 
money.  But  then  you  will  have  to  look  out.  If  you 
don't  pay,  I'll  complain  about  you  to  the  police." 

With  these  words  he  turned,  bowed,  and  walked 
away  across  the  pasture,  without  so  much  as  a  glance 
at  the  hut  at  whose  door  there  shone  for  a  long 
time  a  white  embroidered  blouse.  It  shone  against 
the  dark  shade  of  the  cherry  trees  like  a  little  white 
star,  and  the  miller  could  not  see  the  black  eyes 
weeping,  the  white  arms  stretched  out  toward  him, 
the  young  breast  sighing  for  his  sake. 

"Don't  cry,  my  honey ;  don't  cry,  my  sugar- 
plum !"  the  old  woman  soothed  her  child.  "Don't 
cry,  it's  God's  will,  my  darling." 

"Okh,  mother,  mother,  if  only  you  had  let  me 
scratch  out  his  eyes,  perhaps  I  should  feel  better !" 


Ill 


After  that  adventure  the  miller's  thoughts  became 
gloomier  than  ever. 

"Somehow  nothing  ever  goes  right  in  this  world," 
he  said  to  himself.  "Unpleasant  things  are  always 
happening,  a  man  never  knows  why.  For  instance, 


218          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

that  girl  there  drove  me  away.  She  called  me  a 
Jew.  If  I  were  a  Jew  and  had  as  much  money  as 
I  have  and  a  business  like  mine,  would  I  live  as  I 
do  ?  Of  course  not !  Look  what  my  life  is  !  I  work 
in  the  mill  myself;  I  don't  half  sleep  by  night;  I 
don't  half  eat  by  day;  I  keep  my  eye  on  the  water 
to  see  it  doesn't  run  out;  I  keep  my  eye  on  the  stones 
to  see  they  don't  come  loose;  I  keep  my  eye  on  the 
shafts  and  the  pinions  and  the  cogs  to  see  they  run 
smoothly  and  don't  miss  a  stroke.  Yes,  and  I  keep 
my  eye  on  that  infernal  workman  of  mine.  How 
can  one  depend  on  a  servant?  If  I  turn  my  back  for 
an  instant  the  scoundrel  runs  off  after  the  girls. 
Yes,  a  miller's  life  is  a  dog's  life,  it  is !  Of  course, 
though,  ever  since  my  uncle — God  rest  his  soul — 
fell  into  the  mill-pond  drunk,  and  the  mill  came  to 
me,  the  money  has  been  collecting  in  my  pockets. 
But  what's  the  result?  Don't  I  have  to  tramp  for 
hours  after  every  single  rouble  I  make,  and  get 
abused  for  it  to  my  face,  yes,  to  my  very  face?  And 
how  much  do  I  get  in  the  end?  A  trifle !  A  Christian 
never  does  get  as  much  as  a  Jew.  Now  if  only  the 
devil  would  carry  away  that  Jew  Yankel  I  might 
be  able  to  manage.  The  people  wouldn't  go  to  any 
one  but  me  then,  whether  they  wanted  flour  or  money 
for  taxes.  Oho !  In  that  case  I  might  even  open  a 
little  inn,  and  then  I  could  either  get  some  one  to 
run  the  mill  for  me,  or  else  sell  it.  Bother  the  mill, 
say  I !  Somehow  a  man  isn't  a  man  as  long  as  he 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          219 

has  to  work.  The  fact  is,  one  copeck  begets  an- 
other. Only  fools  don't  know  that.  If  you  buy 
yourself  a  pair  of  pigs,  for  instance — pigs  are  pro- 
lific animals — in  a  year  you'll  have  a  herd  of  them, 
and  money's  just  the  same.  If  you  put  it  out  to 
pasture  among  stupid  folk  you  can  sit  still  and 
yawn  until  the  time  comes  to  drive  it  home.  Every 
copeck  will  have  brought  forth  ten  copecks,  every 
rouble  will  have  brought  forth  ten  roubles." 

The  miller  had  now  reached  the  crest  of  a  hill 
from  where  the  road  sloped  gently  to  the  river. 
From  here,  when  the  night  breeze  breathed  into  his 
face,  he  could  faintly  hear  the  sleepy  water  mur- 
muring in  the  mill-race.  Looking  behind  him,  the 
miller  could  see  the  village  sleeping  among  its  gar- 
dens, and  the  widow's  little  khata  under  its  tall  pop- 
lars. He  stood  plunged  in  thought  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, scratching  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Ah,  what  a  fool  I  am!"  he  said  at  last,  resum- 
ing his  journey.  "If  my  uncle  hadn't  taken  it  into 
his  head  to  get  drunk  on  gorelka  and  walk  into  the 
mill-pond  I  might  have  been  married  to  Galya  to- 
day, but  now  she's  beneath  me.  Okh,  but  that  girl  is 
sweet  to  kiss !  Goodness,  how  sweet  she  is !  That's 
why  I  say  that  nothing  ever  goes  right  in  this  world. 
If  that  little  face  had  a  nice  dowry  behind  it,  if  it 
had  even  as  much  as  old  Makogon  is  giving  away 
with  his  Motria,  there  would  be  nothing  more  to  be 
said!" 


220          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

He  cast  one  last  look  behind  him,  and  turned  on 
his  way,  when  suddenly  the  stroke  of  a  bell  resounded 
from  the  village.  Something  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  the  church  steeple  that  rose  from  a  hill  in 
the  centre  of  the  town,  and  to  be  flying,  clanging 
and  rocking,  across  the  fields. 

"Eh,  hey,  it  is  midnight  on  earth,"  the  miller 
mused,  and  with  a  great  yawn  he  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  down  the  hill,  thinking  of  his  flock  as  he 
went.  He  saw  his  roubles  as  if  they  had  been  alive, 
passing  from  hand  to  hand  and  from  business  to 
business,  grazing  and  multiplying.  He  laughed  to 
recall  that  some  fools  thought  they  worked  for 
themselves.  And  when  the  time  was  ripe,  he,  the 
owner  of  the  flock,  would  drive  it  and  its  increase 
back  into  his  iron  chest. 

These  thoughts  were  all  pleasant  ones,  but  the 
recollection  of  the  Jew  spoilt  them  again.  The  miller 
was  provoked  because  that  son  of  Israel  had  seized 
all  the  grazing  for  himself,  leaving  his  poor  roubles 
nowhere  to  feed  and  nothing  to  grow  fat  on,  like 
a  flock  of  sheep  in  a  field  where  Jewish  goats  had 
already  been  pasturing.  Every  one  knew  they  never 
could  fatten  there ! 

"Oh,  I  wish  the  devil  would  get  him,  the  foul 
brute!"  the  miller  said  to  himself,  and  he  decided 
it  was  the  thought  of  the  Jew  that  depressed  him 
so.  That's  what,  was  wrong  with  the  world.  Those 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

infernal  Jews  prevented  Christians  from  collecting 
their  lawful  profits. 

Half  way  down  the  hill,  where  the  peaceful,  drowsy 
sound  of  the  water  in  the  mill-race  came  uninter- 
mittently  to  his  ears,  the  miller  suddenly  stopped  and 
struck  his  forehead  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"Ha!  What  a  joke  it  would  be!  It  would  be  a 
grand  joke,  I  swear!  This  the  Day  of  Atonement. 
What  if  the  Hebrew  devil  should  take  a  fancy  to 
our  inn-keeper  Yankel?  But  he  won't!  It  couldn't 
possibly  happen.  The  town  is  crammed  with  Jews, 
and  Yankel  is  a  tipsy  old  wretch,  as  bony  as  a 
hedgehog.  Who  would  want  him  ?  No,"  thought  the 
miller,  "I'm  not  lucky  enough  for  Khapun  to  choose 
our  Yankel  out  of  thousands  of  others." 

Then,  like  a  nest  of  ants  in  a  turmoil,  another 
train  of  thought  began  to  pass  through  his  head. 

"Ah,  Philip,  Philip !"  he  said  to  himself.  "It  isn't 
right  for  a  Christian  to  think  such  things !  Recol- 
lect yourself!  Yankel  would  leave  children  behind 
him,  as  well  as  debts.  And  another  reason  why  it 
is  sinful :  Yankel  has  never  done  you  any  harm.  If 
others  have  reason  to  blame  the  old  inn-keeper,  you 
yourself  are  not  guiltless  of  usury." 

But  the  miller  hastily  sent  other  and  angrier 
thoughts  to  attack  these  last  unpleasant  reflections 
that  had  begun  to  bite  his  conscience  like  vicious 
dogs. 

"But  after  all,  a  Sheeny  is  only  a  Sheeny,  and  isn't 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

in  the  same  class  with  Christians  at  all.  Even  if 
I  do  lend  money — and  I  do,  there's  no  use  denying  it 
— it's  better  for  Christians  to  pay  interest  to  a 
brother  Christian  than  to  a  heathen  Jew." 

At  that  moment  the  last  notes  of  the  bell  pealed 
out  from  the  belfry. 

Probably  Ivan  Kadilo,  the  bell-ringer,  had  gone 
to  sleep  in  the  church  and  had  pulled  the  bell  rope  in 
his  sleep,  so  long  had  he  taken  to  sound  the  hour 
of  midnight.  To  atone  for  his  neglect,  this  last  tug 
was  so  violent  that  the  miller  actually  jumped  as 
the  sound  came  rolling  over  the  hill,  over  his  head, 
across  the  river,  across  the  wood,  and  away  over  the 
distant  fields  through  which  wound  the  road  to  the 
city. 

"Every  one  is  asleep  now,"  the  miller  thought, 
and  something  gripped  his  heart.  "Every  one  is 
asleep  where  he  wants  to  be ;  all  but  the  Jews  crowded 
weeping  into  their  churches,  and  I,  who  am  stand- 
ing here  by  my  mill-pond  like  a  lost  soul,  thinking 
wicked  thoughts." 

And  everything  seemed  very  strange  to  him. 

"I  hear  the  sound  of  the  bell  dying  away  over 
the  fields,"  thought  he,  "and  I  feel  as  if  something 
invisible  were  running,  moaning,  through  the  country. 
I  see  the  woods  beyond  the  river  drenched  with  dew 
and  shining  in  the  moonlight,  and  I  begin  to  wonder 
why  they  should  be  covered  with  frost  on  a  sum- 
mer's night.  And  when  I  remember  that  my  uncle 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

was  drowned  in  that  pond,  and  how  glad  I  was 
that  it  happened,  I  seem  to  lose  heart  entirely.  I 
don't  know  whether  to  go  down  to  the  mill  or  to 
stay  where  I  am." 

"Gavrilo !  Hey,  Gavrilo !"  he  shouted  at  last. 
"There  now!  The  mill  is  empty,  and  that  scamp 
has  made  off  to  the  village  again  after  the  girls." 

Philip  stepped  out  into  a  bright  spot  of  moon- 
light on  the  dam,  and  stood  listening  to  the  water 
trickling  through  the  sluices.  It  seemed  to  him  to 
be  stealing  out  of  the  pond  and  creeping  toward 
the  mill-wheels. 

"I  had  better  go  to  bed,"  he  thought.  "But  I'll 
see  that  everything  is  all  right  first." 

The  moon  had  long  since  climbed  to  the  zenith,  and 
was  looking  down  into  the  water.  The  miller  won- 
dered that  the  little  river  should  be  deep  enough  to 
hold  the  moon,  and  the  dark  blue  sky  with  all  its 
stars,  and  the  little  black  cloudlet  that  was  flying 
along  all  alone  like  a  bit  of  down  from  the  direction 
of  the  city. 

But  as  his  eyes  were  already  half  blind  with  sleep 
he  did  not  wonder  long.  Having  opened  the  outer 
door  of  the  mill  and  bolted  it  again  from  the  inside 
so  that  he  should  hear  his  reprobate  workman  when 
he  came  home,  he  lay  down  to  sleep. 

"Hallo,  get  up,  Philip !"  he  suddenly  thought  to 
himself,  and  he  jumped  out  of  bed  in  the  darkness  as 
if  some  one  had  hit  him  with  an  axe.  "I  forgot  that 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

that  little  cloud  was  the  same  one  the  Jew's  servant 
and  I  saw  flying  toward  the  city,  and  wondered  as  we 
watched  it  how  it  could  move  without  wind.  There 
isn't  much  wind  now,  and  what  there  is  isn't  coming 
from  that  quarter.  Wait  a  minute,  Philip,  there's 
something  queer  about  this  !" 

The  miller  was  very  sleepy,  but,  nevertheless,  he 
went  out  barefoot  on  to  the  dam,  and  stood  in  the 
middle  of  it  scratching  his  chest  and  back  (the 
mill  was  not  free  from  fleas).  A  light  breeze  was 
blowing  from  the  mill-pond  behind  him,  and  yet  there 
was  that  little  cloud  flying  directly  in  his  face.  Only 
it  now  no  longer  looked  feathery-light,  neither  did  it 
fly  as  swiftly  and  freely  as  before.  It  seemed  to  be 
swaying  a  little  and  falling  to  earth  like  a  wounded 
bird.  As  it  flew  across  the  moon  the  miller  at  last 
saw  very  clearly  what  it  was,  for  against  that  bright 
orb  were  silhouetted  a  pair  of  dark,  flapping  wings, 
and  below  them  was  hanging  a  human  form  with 
a  long,  quivering  beard. 

"Aha,  here's  a  pretty  to  do!"  thought  the  miller. 
"He's  carrying  one  of  them  away.  What  shall  I 
do?  If  I  shout  to  him:  drop  it,  it  is  mine!  the  poor 
Jew  may  break  his  neck  or  fall  into  the  pond.  He's 
pretty  high  up." 

But  he  soon  saw  that  the  situation  was  changing. 
The  devil  was  circling  over  the  mill  with  his  burden, 
and  beginning  to  sink  to  the  ground. 

"He  was  greedy  and  chose  a  morsel  too  big  for 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          225 

him,"  the  miller  said  to  himself.  "Now  I  can  rescue 
the  Jew;  he's  a  living  soul,  after  all,  and  isn't  to 
be  compared  to  a  devil.  Come  then,  God  bless  me, 
let  me  shout  my  loudest !" 

But  instead  of  shouting  he  strangely  enough  ran 
away  from  the  dam  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry 
him,  and  hid  under  the  sycamores  that  stood  like 
nixies  at  the  edge  of  the  mill-pond,  bathing  their 
green  branches  in  its  dark  water.  The  darkness  was 
as  deep  under  them  as  in  a  barrel,  and  the  miller  felt 
sure  that  no  one  could  see  him.  To  tell  the  honest 
truth,  his  teeth  were  chattering  madly  and  his  hands 
and  feet  were  trembling  as  the  shafts  trembled  when 
his  mill  was  running.  Nevertheless,  he  couldn't  re- 
sist the  temptation  of  peeping  out  to  see  what  would 
happen  next. 

First  the  devil  fell  almost  to  earth  with  his  prey, 
and  then  rose  again  above  the  tree-tops,  but  it  was 
plain  to  see  that  his  load  was  too  heavy  for  him. 
Twice  he  actually  touched  the  water,  so  that  the 
ripples  spread  in  circles  from  the  Jew's  feet,  but 
each  time  he  flapped  his  wings,  and  rose  again  with  his 
prey  as  a  sea-gull  rises  from  the  water  with  a  heavy 
fish.  At  last,  after  circling  about  two  or  three  times, 
the  devil  fell  heavily  on  to  the  dam,  and  lay  as  if 
dead,  with  the  fainting  Jew  inanimate  at  his  side. 

And  I  must  tell  you — I  had  nearly  forgotten  it — 
that  our  friend  the  miller  had  long  ago  seen  whom 
the  Jewish  Khapun  had  brought  from  the  city.  And 


226          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

when  he  recognised  him — need  I  conceal  it  when  he 
has  confessed  it  himself? — he  grew  merry  at  heart 
and  thought: 

"Thank  God,  it  is  no  other  than  our  inn-keeper 
from  Novokamensk!  What  happens  next  is  none 
of  my  business,  because  I  don't  think  I  ought  to 
interfere  in  other  people's  affairs.  When  two  dogs 
are  fighting  there's  no  reason  a  third  should  jump 
in.  Again  I  say,  let  sleeping  dogs  lie.  What  if  I 
hadn't  have  happened  to  be  here?  I'm  not  the  Jew's 
guardian." 

And  he  also  thought: 

"Aha,  Philipko,  now  your  time  has  come  in  Novo- 
kamensk !" 


IV 


Both  the  unfortunate  Jew  and  the  devil  lay  mo- 
tionless on  the  dam  for  a  long  time.  The  moon  had 
begun  to  redden,  and  was  hanging  above  the  tree- 
tops  as  if  only  waiting  to  see  what  the  end  would 
be  before  setting.  A  hoarse  cock  crowed  in  the 
village,  and  a  dog  yelped  twice.  But  no  other  cocks 
or  dogs  answered  these  two;  it  evidently  still  lacked 
some  hours  to  dawn. 

The  miller  was  exhausted,  and  was  already  begin- 
ning to  think  it  had  all  been  a  dream,  especially  as 
the  dam  now  lay  wrapped  in  profoundest  darkness, 
so  that  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  what  the 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          227 

black  object  lying  upon  it  was.  But  when  the  soli- 
tary cock-crow  resounded  from  the  village  the  dark 
mass  stirred.  Yankel  raised  his  head  in  its  skull-cap, 
looked  about  him,  got  up,  and  began  to  steal  softly 
away,  stepping  high  like  a  stork  with  his  thin  legs, 
in  his  stocking-feet. 

"Hi,  there!  Stop  him;  he's  making  off!"  the 
startled  miller  came  near  shouting,  but  next  moment 
he  saw  the  devil  catch  Yankel  by  his  long  coat- 
tails. 

"Wait  a  bit !"  Khapun  cried.  "There's  plenty  of 
time  yet.  What  a  hurry  you're  in!  Here  you  are 
wanting  to  be  off  again  before  I've  had  time  to  rest ! 
It's  all  right  for  you,  but  what  about  me,  who  have 
to  drag  a  big  fellow  like  you  along?  I'm  nearly 
dead !" 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  Jew,  trying  to  free  his 
coat-tails  from  the  devil's  grasp.  "Rest  a  little 
longer,  and  I'll  walk  to  my  inn  on  foot." 

The  devil  jumped  up   in  surprise. 

"What's  that  you're  saying?"  he  cried.  "Do  you 
think  I  have  hired  myself  out  to  you  as  a  cart  to 
take  you  home  from  church,  you  hound?  You  must 
be  joking!" 

"Why  should  I  be  joking?"  asked  the  wily  Yankel, 
pretending  to  have  no  idea  what  the  Devil  wanted 
with  him.  "I  am  very  grateful  indeed  to  you  for 
having  brought  me  so  far,  and  I  can  now  go  on 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

quite  well  by  myself.  It  is  only  a  short  way.  I 
wouldn't  think  of  troubling  you  any  more." 

The  devil  quivered  with  rage.  He  ran  round  and 
round  on  the  same  spot  like  a  chicken  with  its  head 
off,  and  knocked  Yankel  down  with  his  wing.  He 
was  panting  like  a  blacksmith's  bellows. 

"Well,  I  never!"  the  miller  thought.  "I  don't 
care  if  it  is  sin  to  admire  a  devil,  I  do  admire  this 
one;  he  would  never  let  his  lawful  property  slip 
between  his  fingers,  one  can  see  that !" 

Yankel  sat  up  and  began  to  yell  with  all  his 
might.  Even  the  devil  could  do  nothing  to  stop 
him.  Every  one  knows  that  as  long  as  a  Jew  has 
a  breath  in  his  body  nothing  will  make  him  hold 
his  tongue. 

"What  does  it  matter,  though?"  thought  the 
miller,  looking  round  at  his  empty  mill.  "My  man 
is  either  amusing  himself  with  the  girls  or  else  lying 
drunk  under  a  hedge." 

A  sleepy  frog  in  the  mud  answered  Yankel's  piti- 
ful screams  with  a  croak,  and  a  bittern,  that  foul 
bird  of  the  night,  boomed  twice  as  if  from  an  empty 
barrel :  boo-oo,  boo-oo !  The  moon  had  finally  sunk 
behind  the  wood,  assured  that  the  Jew  was  dead 
and  done  for;  darkness  hud  fallen  upon  the  mill,  the 
dam,  and  the  river,  and  a  white  mist  had  gathered 
over  the  pond. 

The  devil  carelessly  shook  his  wings,  and  lay  down 
again,  saying  with  a  laugh : 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

"Scream  as  loud  as  you  like!  The  mill  is  de- 
serted." 

"How  do  you  know  it's  deserted?"  snapped  the 
Jew,  and  he  began  to  scream  for  the  miller. 

"Mr.  Miller!  Oi,  Mr.  Miller!  Golden,  silver, 
diamond  Mr.  Miller!  Please,  please  come  here  for 
one  little  tiny  second  and  say  three  words,  three 
little  tiny  words !  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  half 
the  debt  you  owe  me  if  you'll  only  come!" 

"You'll  make  me  a  present  of  the  whole  debt!" 
said  a  voice  in  the  miller's  heart. 

The  Jew  stopped  screaming,  his  head  sank  for- 
ward on  his  breast,  and  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  bitter 
weeping. 

Again  some  time  passed.  The  moon  had  now 
set,  and  its  last  rays  had  died  out  of  the  sky.  Every- 
thing in  heaven  and  on  earth  seemed  wrapped 
in  the  deepest  slumber;  not  a  sound  could  be 
heard  except  the  Jew's  low  weeping  and  his  exclama- 
tions of: 

"Oh,  my  Sarah !  Oh,  my  poor  children !  My 
poor  little  children!" 

The  devil  felt  a  little  rested,  and  sat  up.  Although 
it  was  dark,  the  miller  could  distinctly  see  a  pair  of 
horns  like  a  young  calf's  outlined  against  the  white 
mist  that  hung  over  the  pond. 

"He  looks  just  like  ours!"  thought  the  miller, 
feeling  as  if  he  had  swallowed  something  exceedingly 
cold. 


230          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

Then  he  saw  the  Jew  nudge  the  devil  with  his 
elbow. 

"What  are  you  nudging  me  for?"  asked  Khapun. 

"Sh,  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"What?" 

"Won't  you  please  tell  me  why  it  is  your  custom 
always  to  carry  off  a  poor  Jew?  Why  don't  you 
catch  a  daintier  morsel?  For  instance,  there  is 
an  excellent  miller  living  right  here." 

The  devil  sighed  deeply.  Perhaps  he  was  tired 
of  sitting  there  on  the  edge  of  the  pond  by  the  empty 
mill;  anyhow,  he  entered  into  conversation  with  the 
Jew.  He  raised  his  skull-cap — you  must  know  that 
he  wore  a  skull-cap  with  long  ringlets  hanging  from 
underneath  it,  just  as  the  servant  had  described  him 
— and  scratched  his  crown  with  a  rasping  noise  like 
the  most  savage  of  cats  clawing  a  board  when  a 
mouse  has  escaped  it.  Then  he  said: 

"Alas,  Yankel,  you  don't  know  our  business !  I 
couldn't  possibly  approach  him." 

"And  why,  may  I  ask,  would  you  have  to  take  the 
time  to  approach  him?  I  know  for  myself  that  you 
snatched  me  away  before  I  could  even  yell." 

The  devil  laughed  so  merrily  that  he  actually 
frightened  a  night-bird  out  of  the  reeds,  and  said: 

"That's  a  fact!  You  were  easy  to  catch.  And 
do  you  know  why?" 

"Why-y?" 

"Because   you're   a  good  lusty   catcher  yourself. 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          231 

I  assure  you  there's  no  other  race  on  earth  as  sinful 
as  you  Jews." 

"Oi,  vei,  that  is  most  surprising!  And  what  are 
our  sins?" 

"Listen  and  I  shall  tell  you." 

The  devil  turned  to  the  Jew  and  began  counting 
on  his  fingers. 

"Number  one.     You  are  usurers." 

"One,"  repeated  Yankel,  also  counting  on  his 
fingers. 

"Number  two.  You  live  by  the  blood  and  sweat 
of  the  people." 

"Two." 

"Number  three.    You  sell  the  people  vodka." 

"Three." 

"Number  four.     You  dilute  it  with  water." 

"Oh,  let  number  four  go!    And  what  is  the  next?" 

"Are  four  sins  so  few?     Ah,  Yankel,  Yankel!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  four  are  few,  I  only  say  that 
you  don't  know  your  own  business.  Do  you  think 
the  miller  isn't  a  usurer,  do  you  think  the  miller 
doesn't  live  by  the  sweat  and  blood  of  the  people?" 

"Come,  now,  don't  pick  at  the  miller !  He's  not 
that  kind  of  a  man — he's  a  Christian.  A  Christian 
is  supposed  to  have  pity  not  only  on  his  own  people 
but  on  others,  too,  even  on  Jews  like  you.  That's 
why  it's  so  hard  for  me  to  catch  a  Christian." 

"Oi,  vei,  what  a  mistake  you  make  there !"  cried 
the  Jew  gaily.  "Here,  let  me  tell  you  something — 


232          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

He  jumped  up,  and  the  devil  rose  too;  they  stood 
facing  one  another.  The  Jew  whispered  something 
in  the  devil's  ear,  motioning  toward  some  object 
behind  him  under  the  sycamore  tree.  He  pointed  it 
out  to  the  devil  with  his  crooked  forefinger. 

"That's  number  one!" 

"You're  lying;  it  can't  be  true!"  the  devil  an- 
swered, a  little  startled,  peering  toward  the  trees 
where  Philip  was  hiding. 

"Ha,  ha,  I  know  better !    Just  wait  a  moment." 

Once  more  he  whispered  something,  and  then  said 
aloud : 

"Number  two !  And  this —  "  again  he  whispered 
in  the  devil's  ear.  "Makes  three,  as  I  am  an  honest 
Jew!" 

The  devil  shook  his  head  and  answered  doubt- 
fully: 

"It  can't  be  true." 

"Let's  make  a  bet.  If  I  am  right  you  shall  let 
me  go  free  when  a  year  is  up,  and  repay  me  my  losses 
into  the  bargain." 

"Ha!  I  agree.  What  a  joke  it  would  be!  Then 
I  should  try  my  power — 

"You're  getting  a  fine  bargain,  I  can  tell  you !" 

At  that  moment  the  cock  in  the  village  crowed 
once  more,  and  although  his  voice  was  so  sleepy  that 
again  no  other  bird  answered  him  out  of  the  silent 
night,  Khapun  shuddered. 

"Here,  what  am  I  standing  here  gaping  at  you  for 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          233 

while  you  tell  me  tales  ?  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth 
two  in  the  bush.  Come  along !" 

He  flapped  his  wings,  flew  a  few  feet  along  the 
dam,  and  once  more  fell  upon  poor  Yankel  like  a 
hawk,  burying  his  claws  in  the  back  of  his  shirt, 
and  preparing  to  take  flight. 

Alas,  how  piteously  old  Yankel  screamed,  stretch- 
ing out  his  arms  toward  the  village  and  his  native 
hut,  calling  his  wife  and  children  by  name ! 

"Oi,  my  Sarah!  Oi,  Shlemka,  Iteley,  Movshey! 
Oi,  Mr.  Miller,  Mr.  Miller!  Please,  please  save 
me !  Say  the  three  words !  I  see  you ;  there  you 
are,  standing  under  the  sycamore  tree.  Have  pity 
on  a  poor  Jew !  He  has  a  living  soul  like  you !" 

Very,  very  piteous  were  poor  Yankel's  lamenta- 
tions !  Icy  fingers  seemed  to  clutch  the  miller's  heart 
and  squeeze  it  until  it  ached.  The  devil  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  something,  his  wings  fluttered  like  the 
wings  of  a  young  bustard  that  has  not  learnt  to 
fly.  He  hovered  silently  over  the  dam  with  Yankel 
in  his  talons. 

"What  a  wretch  that  devil  is  !"  thought  the  miller, 
hiding  farther  under  the  trees.  "He  is  only  tor- 
menting the  poor  Jew.  If  the  cocks  should  crow 
again — 

Hardly  had  that  thought  entered  his  head  than 
the  devil  laughed  till  the  wood  rang,  and  suddenly 
sprang  aloft  into  the  sky.  The  miller  peered  up- 
ward, but  in  a  few  seconds  the  devil  appeared  no 


234          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

larger  than  a  sparrow.  Then  he  glimmered  for  a 
moment  like  a  fly,  then  like  a  gnat,  and  at  last 
disappeared. 

Then  the  miller  was  seized  with  genuine  terror. 
His  knees  knocked  together,  his  teeth  chattered,  his 
hair  stood  on  end  so  high  that,  had  he  been  wearing 
a  hat,  it  would  certainly  have  been  knocked  off  his 
head.  He  never  could  say  exactly  what  he  did  next. 


V 

Bang — bang ! 

Bang — bang — bang !     Bang — bang ! 

Some  one  was  knocking  so  loudly  at  the  door  of 
the  mill  that  the  whole  building  was  filled  with  noisy 
echoes  that  reverberated  in  every  corner.  The  miller 
thought  the  devil  might  have  come  back — he  and 
the  Jew  had  not  whispered  together  for  nothing! — 
so  he  only  buried  his  head  under  the  pillow. 

"Bang — bang!  Bang — bang!  Hey,  master,  un- 
lock the  door!" 

"I  won't!" 

"And  why  won't  you?" 

The  miller  raised  his  head. 

"Ah,  that  sounds  like  Gavrilo's  voice.  Gavrilo, 
is  that  you?" 

"Who  else  should  it  be?" 

"Swear  that  it's  you!" 

"What?" 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          235 

"Swear!" 

"All  right,  then,  I  swear  it's  me.  How  could  I 
not  be  myself?  And  jet  you  want  me  to  swear  it! 
There's  a  marvel  for  you!" 

Even  then  the  miller  wouldn't  believe  him.  He  went 
upstairs  and  peeped  out  of  a  window  over  the  door, 
and  there  beneath  him  stood  Gavrilo.  The  miller 
was  much  relieved  and  went  down  to  open  the  door. 

Gavrilo  was  actually  staggered  when  the  miller 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Why,  master,  what  has  happened  to  you?" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Why  on  earth  have  you  smeared  your  face  all 
over  with  flour?  You're  as  white  as  chalk!" 

"Didn't  you  come  across  the  river?" 

"I  did." 

"And  didn't  you  look  up?" 

"Perhaps." 

"And  didn't  you  see  some  one?" 

"Who?" 

"Who?  Fool!  The  creature  that  nabbed  Yankel 
the  inn-keeper." 

"Who  the  devil  nabbed  him?" 

"Who,  indeed?  Why,  the  Jewish  devil,  Khapun. 
Don't  you  know  what  day  this  has  been?" 

Gavrilo  looked  at  the  miller  with  troubled  eyes 
and  asked: 

"Have  you  been  to  the  village  this  evening?" 

"Yes." 


236          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

"Did  you  stop  at  the  inn?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  drink  any  gorelka?" 

"Bah,  what's  the  use  of  talking  to  a  fool?  I  did 
have  some  gorelka  at  the  priest's,  but  all  the  same  I 
have  just  seen  with  my  own  eyes  the  devil  resting 
on  the  dam  with  the  Jew  in  his  claws." 

"Where?" 

"Right  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  dam." 

"And  what  happened  next?" 

"Well,  and  then the  miller  whistled  and 

waved  his  hand  in  the  air. 

Gavrilo  stared  at  the  dam,  scratched  his  top- 
knot, and  looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"There's  a  marvel  for  you!  What'll  we  do  now? 
How  can  we  get  along  without  the  Jew  ?" 

"Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  have  a  Jew  here, 
hey?"  ' 

"It  isn't  only  me.  One  can't — oh,  don't  argue 
about  it,  master,  things  wouldn't  be  the  same  with- 
out a  Jew ;  one  couldn't  get  along  without  one." 

"Tut,  tut!     What  a  fool  you  are!" 

"What  are  you  scolding  me  for?  I  don't  say  I'm 
clever,  but  I  know  millet  from  buckwheat.  I  work 
in  the  mill,  but  I  drink  vodka  at  the  tavern.  Tell 
me,  as  you're  so  clever,  who  will  be  our  inn-keeper 
now?" 

"Who?" 

"Yes,  who?" 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          237 

"Perhaps  I  will." 

"You?" 

Gavrilo  stared  at  the  miller  with  his  eyes  start- 
ing out  of  his  head.  Then  he  shook  his  head,  clicked 
his  tongue,  and  said: 

"So,  that's  your  idea !" 

The  miller  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  that 
Gavrilo  was  very  uncertain  on  his  legs  and  that  the 
lads  had  given  him  another  black  eye.  To  tell  the 
truth,  the  fellow  looked  so  ugly  and  pale  that  you 
wanted  to  spit  at  the  sight  of  him.  He  was  a  great 
hand  with  the  girls,  and  the  lads  had  more  than 
once  fallen  upon  him.  Whenever  they  caught  him 
they  were  sure  to  beat  him  almost  to  death.  Of 
course  it  was  no  wonder  they  beat  him;  the  wonder 
was  there  was  ever  anything  for  which  to  do  it ! 

"There  is  no  face  in  the  world  so  ugly  but  some 
girl  will  fall  in  love  with  it,"  thought  the  miller. 
"But  they  love  him  by  threes  and  fours  and  dozens. 
Ugh !  You  scarecrow !" 

"Come,  Gavrilo,  boy,"  he  nevertheless  said  in  a 
coaxing  voice,  "come  and  sleep  with  me.  When  a 
man  has  seen  what  I  have  he  feels  a  bit  nervous." 

"All  right,  it's  all  the  same  to  me." 

A  minute  later  a  certain  workman  was  whistling 
through  his  nose.  And  let  me  tell  you,  I  spent  the 
night  at  the  mill  once  myself,  and  I  have  never  heard 
any  one  whistle  through  his  nose  as  Gavrilo  did.  If 
a  man  didn't  like  it  he  had  better  not  spend  the  night 


238          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

in  the  same  house  with  him  or  he  wouldn't  sleep  a 
wink. 

"Gavrilo !"  said  the  miller.     "Hey,  Gavrilo !" 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it?  If  I  couldn't  sleep  my- 
self at  least  I  wouldn't  keep  others  awake!" 

"Did  they  beat  you  again?" 

"What  if  they  did?" 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"You  want  to  know  everything,  don't  you?  In 
Konda." 

"In  Konda?    Why  did  you  go  there?" 

"Because !  What  else  do  you  want  to  know?  Hee, 
hee,  hee!" 

"Aren't  there  girls  enough  for  you  in  Novoka- 
mensk  ?" 

"Bah!  It  makes  me  sick  to  look  at  them.  There 
isn't  one  there  that  suits  me." 

"What  about  Galya,  the  widow's  daughter?" 

"Galya?     What  do  I  care  about  Galya?" 

"What,  have  you  been  courting  her?" 

"Of  course  I  have ;  what  do  you  think?" 

The  miller  flounced  over  in  bed. 

"You're  lying,  you  hound ;  a  plague  seize  your 
mother !" 

"I'm  not  lying  and  I  never  lie.  I  leave  that  to 
cleverer  men  than  I  am." 

Gavrilo  yawned  and  said  in  a  sleepy  voice: 

"Do    you   remember,   master,   how  my   right  eye 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          239 

was  so  swelled  up  for  a  week  that  you  couldn't  even 
see  it?" 

"Well?" 

"That  devil's  child  entertained  me  by  doing  that. 
Confound  her,  say  I!  Galya,  indeed!" 

"So  that's  how  things  are,  is  it?"  thought  the 
miller.  "Gavrilo !  Hey,  Gavrilo !  Oh,  the  hound, 
he's  snoring  again — Gavrilo !" 

"What  do  you  want?    Have  you  gone  crazy?" 

"Do  you  want  to  get  married?" 

"I  haven't  made  my  boots  yet.  When  I've  made 
my  boots  I'll  think  about  it." 

"But  I'd  give  you  boots,  and  tar  for  them,  and  a 
hat  and  a  belt." 

"Would  you?  And  I'll  tell  you  something  better 
still." 

"What?" 

"That  the  cocks  are  already  crowing  in  the  vil- 
lage. Can't  you  hear  them  going  it?" 

It  was  true.  In  the  village,  perhaps  at  Galya's 
cottage,  a  shrill-voiced  cock  was  splitting  his  throat 
shouting  "cock-a-doodle-doo !" 

"Cock-a-doodle-doo !"  answered  other  voices  from 
far  and  near  like  water  boiling  in  a  kettle,  and  all 
the  cracks  in  the  wall  of  the  little  room  began  to 
gleam  white,  even  down  to  the  tiniest  chink. 

The  miller  yawned  blissfully. 

"Ah,  now  they  are  far  away !"  he  thought.  "How 
funny  it  was  !  He  flew  all  the  way  from  the  city  to  my 


240          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

mill  while  the  clock  was  striking  twelve.  Ha,  ha, 
and  so  Yankel  has  gone!  What  a  joke!  Why,  if  I 
should  tell  it  to  any  one,  they'd  call  me  a  liar.  But 
why  should  I  He?  They'll  find  it  out  for  themselves 
to-morrow.  Perhaps  I'd  better  not  mention  it  at  all. 
They  would  say  I  ought  to  have — but  what's  the  use 
of  arguing  about  it  ?  If  I  had  killed  the  Jew  myself, 
or  anything  like  that,  I  should  have  been  responsible 
for  what  happened,  but  as  it  is,  it  doesn't  concern  me 
at  all.  What  need  had  I  to  interfere?  Let  sleeping 
dogs  lie,  say  I.  A  shut  mouth  plays  safe.  They 
won't  hear  anything  from  me." 

So  Philip  the  miller  reasoned  with  himself,  and 
tried  to  ease  his  conscience  a  little.  It  was  only  as 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  falling  asleep  that  a  thought 
crept  out  of  some  recess  of  his  brain  like  a  toad 
out  of  a  hole,  and  that  thought  was : 

"Now,  Philip,  now's  your  time !" 

This  thought  chased  all  the  others  out  of  his  mind 
and  took  possession  of  it. 

With  it  he  went  to  sleep. 


VI 


Early  next  morning,  while  the  dew  is  still  glitter- 
ing on  the  grass,  behold  the  miller  dressed  and  on  his 
way  to  the  village.  He  found  the  people  there  buzz- 
ing like  bees  in  a  hive. 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          241 

"Hey !  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?"  they  cried. 
"Only  a  pair  of  shoes  came  back  from  the  city  last 
night  instead  of  the  inn-keeper." 

It  was  the  talk  of  the  village  that  morning,  and 
the  amount  of  gossip  was  sinful! 

When  Yankel's  widow  had  a  pair  of  shoes  re- 
turned to  her  instead  of  her  husband,  she  lost  her 
head  entirely  and  didn't  know  what  in  the  world 
to  do.  To  make  matters  worse,  Yankel  had  wisely 
taken  all  his  bonds  to  town  with  him,  never  dreaming 
that  Khapun  would  get  him  that  night.  How  could 
the  poor  Jew  guess  that  out  of  the  whole  Hebrew  con- 
gregation the  devil  would  happen  to  choose  him? 

"That's  the  way  people  always  are,  they  never 
know,  they  never  feel  when  trouble  like,  for  instance, 
Khapun  is  hanging  over  their  heads." 

So  spoke  the  village  folk,  shaking  their  heads  as 
they  left  the  inn  where  the  young  Jewess  and  her 
children  were  tearing  their  clothes  and  beating  their 
foreheads  on  the  floor.  And  at  the  same  time  each 
man  thought  to  himself: 

"Well,  anyhow,  the  bond  I  gave  him  has  gone  to 
the  devil!" 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  there  were  very  few  in  the 
village  whose  consciences  whispered  to  them : 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  return  the  principal 
to  the  Jewess  even  if  we  kept  the  interest." 

And  the  fact  is  no  one  gave  up  so  much  as  one 
crooked  penny. 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

The  miller  did  not  pay  anything  either,  but  then 
he  thought  he  was  different. 

The  widow  Yankel  begged  and  implored  the  towns- 
folk to  help  her,  and  even  made  her  children  throw 
themselves  at  their  feet,  beseeching  them  to  let  her 
have  fifty,  or  even  twenty,  copecks  on  every  rouble 
so  that  she  shouldn't  starve,  and  might  somehow 
manage  to  take  her  little  orphans  to  the  city.  And 
more  than  one  kind-hearted  man  was  so  moved  that 
the  tears  trickled  down  his  whiskers,  and  more  than 
one  nudged  his  neighbour  and  said: 

"Haven't  you  any  fear  of  God  in  you,  neigh- 
bour? Didn't  you  owe  the  Jew  money?  Why  don't 
you  pay  her?  Upon  my  word,  you  ought  to,  even 
if  it's  only  a  little." 

But  the  neighbour  would  only  scratch  his  top- 
knot under  his  hat  and  answer: 

"Why  should  I  pay  him,  when  with  my  own  hands 
I  took  him  every  penny  I  owed  him  the  day  he  went 
to  the  city?  Would  you  have  me  to  pay  twice?  Now 
with  you,  neighbour,  it's  different!" 

"Why  is  it  different  with  me  when  I  did  exactly 
what  you  did?  Yankel  came  to  me  just  before  he 
went  away  and  begged  me  to  pay  him,  and  I  did." 

The  miller  listened  to  all  this,  and  his  heart  ached 
to  hear  it. 

"What  a  bad  lot  they  are !"  he  thought.  "Good- 
ness knows,  they're  a  bad  lot !  There's  absolutely  no 
fear  of  God  in  their  hearts.  I  see  from  this  that 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          243 

they'll  never  pay  me  unless  they're  driven  to  do  it. 
So,  gentlemen,  I  must  take  care  or  I  shall  get  robbed ; 
only  a  born  fool  would  put  his  finger  in  the  mouth 
of  any  one  of  you!  No,  you  needn't  expect  that 
of  me!  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
You'll  not  spit  in  my  porridge.  If  anything,  I'll 
spit  in  yours." 

Old  Prisia  alone  took  the  Jewess  two  dozen  eggs 
and  a  piece  of  cloth,  and  payed  the  inn-keeper's 
widow  as  many  copecks  as  she  owed  her. 

"Take  them,  dearie,  in  God's  name,"  said  she. 
"If  I  owe  you  a  little  more  I'll  bring  it  here  as  God 
sends  it  to  me.  I  have  brought  you  all  I  have  now." 

"There's  a  crafty  old  woman  for  you!"  the  miller 
again  commented  angrily.  "She  wouldn't  pay  me 
a  thing  yesterday  and  yet  she  is  able  to  pay  the 
Jewess.  How  wicked  these  people  are!  One  can't 
even  trust  the  old  women.  She  says  she  can't  pay  a 
good  Christian  like  me  and  then  goes  and  hands  over 
all  her  money  to  a  nasty  Jewess.  Wait  a  bit,  old 
woman,  I'll  get  even  with  you  some  day !" 

Well,  Yankel's  widow  gathered  her  children  about 
her,  and  sold  the  inn  and  the  stock  of  vodka  for  a 
song;  but  there  wasn't  much  vodka  left,  for  Yankel 
had  meant  to  bring  back  a  cask  from  the  city,  and 
people  said,  too,  that  Kharko  had  filched  a  cask  or 
two  from  what  had  remained.  So  she  took  what  she 
could  get  and  left  Novokamensk  on  foot  with  her  chil- 
dren. Two  she  carried  in  her  arms,  a  third  toddled 


244          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

at  her  side  holding  on  to  her  skirt,  and  the  two 
eldest  skipped  on  ahead. 

And  again  the  villagers  scratched  their  heads, 
while  those  who  had  a  conscience  thought :  "If  only 
I  could  give  the  Jewess  a  wagon  for  the  money  I  owe 
her  perhaps  I'd  feel  easier." 

But,  you  see,  each  man  was  afraid  that  the  others 
would  guess  he  hadn't  squared  his  account  with  the 
Jew. 

And  the  miller  thought  again : 

"Oh,  what  wicked  people !  Now  I  know  how  gladly 
they'd  hustle  me  out  of  the  way  if  I  should  ever 
stumble  or  come  a  cropper." 

So  the  poor  widow  crawled  away  to  the  city,  and 
heaven  only  knows  what  became  of  her  there.  Maybe 
she  and  the  children  found  something  to  do;  maybe 
they  all  died  of  hunger.  Everything  is  possible.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  Jews  are  tenacious  creatures. 
They  may  live  badly,  but  they  manage  to  stay  alive. 

Then  the  people  began  to  ask  themselves  who 
would  be  the  next  inn-keeper  in  Novokamensk.  For 
though  Yankel  had  gone  and  the  women  and  chil- 
dren of  the  inn  had  wandered  away  into  the  wide 
world,  the  tavern  still  stood  on  its  hill,  and  on  its 
doors  were  still  depicted  in  white  paint  a  quart 
measure  and  a  tin  mug.  And  everything  else  was 
there  in  its  proper  place. 

Even  Kharko  still  sat  on  the  hill  smoking  his  long 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          245 

pipe  and  waiting  to  see  whom  God  would  send  him 
for  a  master. 

One  evening  though,  when  the  village  folk  were 
standing  in  front  of  the  empty  tavern  and  wonder- 
ing who  would  be  their  next  inn-keeper,  the  priest 
came  up,  and  bowing  deeply — for  the  mayor  was 
there,  and  as  he  is  a  great  man  it  is  no  sin  even  for 
a  priest  to  bow  to  him — began  to  say  what  a  good 
thing  it  would  be  if  a  meeting  could  be  arranged 
to  close  up  the  tavern  for  good  and  all.  He,  the 
priest,  would  write  a  letter  with  his  own  hand  and 
send  it  to  the  bishop.  And  this  would  be  a  splendid, 
beautiful  thing,  and  beneficial  to  the  whole  village. 

The  old  men  and  the  women  answered  that  what 
the  priest  had  said  was  the  honest  truth,  but  the 
miller  thought  the  priest's  idea  absolutely  worth- 
less and  even  insulting. 

"What  a  wicked  priest !"  he  thought  with  indigna- 
tion. "There's  a  friend  for  you!  Just  you  wait 
a  bit,  though,  holy  Father,  you'll  see  what'll  hap- 
pen." 

"You  are  quite  right,  Father,"  he  answered  in  oily 
tones,  "your  letter  will  do  a  great  deal  of  good, 
only  I  don't  know  whom  it  will  help  most,  you  or 
the  village.  You  know  yourself — don't  take  it  ill — 
that  you  always  send  to  the  city  for  vodka  and  so 
you  don't  need  the  tavern.  It  would  be  very  nice 
for  you  to  have  the  bishop  read  your  letter  and  praise 
it," 


246          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

The  people  shouted  with  laughter,  but  the  priest 
only  spat  in  a  great  huff,  clapped  his  straw  hat  on 
his  head,  and  walked  away  down  the  street  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened  and  he  was  simply  taking  an  even- 
ing stroll. 

Need  I  tell  you  more?  You  must  surely  have 
guessed  already  that  the  miller  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  the  keeper  of  the  Jewish  tavern.  And 
having  made  up  his  mind  he  talked  very  agreeably 
to  the  mayor,  entertained  whichever  members  of 
the  County  Court  he  thought  advisable,  and  reasoned 
very  cleverly  with  the  captain  of  police  and  with  the 
head  of  the  District,  as  well  as  with  the  judge,  the 
treasurer,  and  finally  with  the  commissioner  of  rural 
police  and  the  customs  inspector. 

On  his  way  back  from  the  village  after  all  these 
exertions  the  miller  passed  the  inn.  There  was  Khar- 
ko,  sitting  on  the  hill  smoking  his  pipe.  The  miller 
only  nodded  to  him,  but  Kharko — although  he  was 
a  proud  fellow — jumped  up  at  once  and  ran  toward 
him. 

"Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say?"  asked  the 
miller. 

"What  should  I  have  to  say?  I  am  waiting  for 
you  to  tell  me  something." 

"Well,  well." 

Kharko  didn't  want  to  nail  the  miller  down  with 
words  yet,  so  he  listened  to  what  the  miller  said, 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          247 

pulled  off  his  cap  with  both  hands,  and  wisely  an- 
swered : 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  all  I  can  for  my  kind 
master." 

So  the  miller  took  possession  of  the  inn  and  lorded 
it  in  Novokamensk  better  than  Yankel  had  done.  He 
put  his  roubles  out  to  pasture  among  the  people, 
and  when  the  time  came  he  drove  them  and  their 
increase  back  into  his  chest.  And  no  one  there  was 
to  get  in  his  way. 

And  if  it  was  true  that  more  than  one  person  wept 
bitter  tears  because  of  him — why  there  is  no  room 
for  truth  in  this  world.  And  many  did  weep ;  whether 
more  than  had  wept  when  Yankel  kept  the  inn  or 
fewer,  I  cannot  attempt  to  say.  Who  can  take  the 
measure  of  human  grief  and  who  can  count  human 
tears  ? 

Ah,  no  one  has  ever  measured  the  grief  and  no 
one  has  ever  counted  the  tears  of  the  world,  but  the 
old  folks  say,  "walking  or  riding,  trouble's  always  in 
hiding" ;  and  that  "the  back  doesn't  laugh  at  a  stick 
or  a  staff."  I  don't  know  how  true  that  is,  but  it 
seems  true  to  me. 


VII 


I  must  admit  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  all  this 
about  my  friend,  but  it's  too  late  to  take  it  back 
now.  I've  begun  the  story  and  I  shall  go  on  to 


248          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

the  end.  A  song's  not  a  song,  they  say,  if  a  word  is 
missing.  And  after  all,  if  the  miller  doesn't  hide  any- 
thing, why  should  I? 

You  see,  the  state  of  affairs  was  this.  All  old 
Yankel  had  ever  wanted  had  been  human  money. 
If  he  heard  with  one  corner  of  his  ear  that  some 
one  had  a  rouble  or  two  loose  in  his  pocket  his 
heart  would  give  him  a  little  prod  and  he  would 
immediately  think  of  some  way  in  which  he  could 
pull  up  that  rouble  and  put  it  to  work  for  him,  as  one 
might  pull  a  fish  out  of  somebody  else's  pond.  If  he 
succeeded,  he  and  his  Sarah  would  rejoice  over  their 
good  fortune. 

But  that  wasn't  enough  for  the  miller.  Yankel 
had  always  grovelled  before  every  one,  but  the  miller 
held  his  head  as  high  as  a  turkey  cock.  Yankel 
had  always  slipped  up  to  the  back  door  of  the  Dis- 
trict policeman's  house  and  stood  timidly  on  the 
threshold,  but  the  miller  swaggered  all  over  the  front 
steps  as  if  he  were  at  home  there.  Yankel  never 
took  it  hard  if  he  got  his  ears  boxed  by  some 
drunken  fellow.  He  howled  a  bit  and  then  stopped, 
perhaps  squeezing  a  few  extra  copecks  out  of  his  tor- 
mentor one  day  or  another  to  make  up  for  it.  But 
if  the  miller  ever  got  hold  of  a  peasant's  top-knot  it 
would  probably  stay  in  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  would 
flash  like  the  sparks  from  a  blacksmith's  hammer. 
With  the  miller  it  was :  pay  up  both  money  and  re- 
spect !  And  he  got  them  both,  there's  no  use  denying 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          249 

it.  The  people  bowed  low  before  their  icons,  but  they 
bowed  lower  before  my  friend. 

And  yet  he  never  could  get  enough.  He  went  about 
as  surly  and  angry  as  if  a  puppy  were  worrying 
his  heart,  thinking  to  himself  all  the  time: 

"Everything  is  wrong  in  this  world,  everything  is 
wrong!  Somehow  money  doesn't  make  a  man  as 
happy  as  it  ought  to." 

Kharko  once  asked  him: 

"Why  do  you  go  about  looking  as  cross  as  if  some 
one  had  thrown  a  bucket  of  slops  over  you,  master? 
What  does  my  master  want?" 

"Perhaps  if  I  got  married  I  should  be  happier." 

"Then  go  ahead  and  get  married." 

"That's  just  the  trouble.  How  can  I  get  married 
when  the  thing's  impossible  no  matter  how  I  tackle 
it?  I'll  tell  you  the  truth:  I  fell  in  love  with  Galya, 
the  widow's  daughter,  before  I  ever  came  to  be  a 
miller  and  while  I  was  still  a  workman  at  the  mill. 
If  my  uncle  hadn't  got  drowned  I  should  be  married 
to  her  to-day.  But  now  you  see  yourself  that  she  is 
below  me." 

"Of  course,  she  is  below  you !  All  you  can  do  now 
is  to  marry  rich  old  Makogon's  daughter  Motria." 

"There  you  are !  I  can  see  for  myself  and  every 
one  says  that  my  money  and  old  Makogon's  would 
just  match,  but  there  you  are  again — the  girl  is  so 
ugly.  She  sits  all  day  like  a  great  bale  of  hay  ever- 
lastingly hulling  seeds.  Every  time  I  look  at  her  I 


250          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

feel  as  if  some  one  had  got  me  by  the  nose  and  were 
pulling  me  away  from  her.  How  different  Galya  is ! 
That's  why  I  say  everything  is  wrong  in  this  world. 
If  a  man  loves  one  girl  the  other  one's  sure  to  have 
the  money.  I  shall  certainly  shrivel  up  some  day  like 
a  blade  of  grass.  I  loathe  the  world." 

The  soldier  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  spat, 
and  said: 

"That's  bad !  Any  one  but  me  would  never  have 
thought  of  a  way  out  of  it,  but  I'm  going  to  give 
you  some  advice  that  you'll  not  be  sorry  if  you  take. 
Will  you  give  me  the  pair  of  new  boots  that  Opanas 
left  in  pawn  if  I  tell  you  what  to  do?" 

"I  wouldn't  begrudge  you  a  pair  of  boots  for 
your  advice,  but  have  you  thought  of  something 
that  really  will  help  me?" 

Well,  it  turned  out  that  that  wicked  soldier  had 
thought  of  a  plan  which,  if  it  had  gone  through  a 
little  bit  sooner,  would  certainly  have  sent  the  miller 
straight  to  the  devil  in  hell  and  I  should  never  have 
been  telling  you  this  story. 

"Very  well,  then,  listen  carefully  to  me,"  Kharko 
said.  "Plainly,  there  are  three  of  you,  one  man  and 
two  girls.  And  plainly  one  man  can't  possibly  marry 
them  both  unless  he's  a  Turk." 

"How  right  the  wretch  is!"  thought  the  miller. 
"What's  coming  next?" 

"Good !    Now  as  you  are  a  rich  man  and  Motria 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT  251 

is  a  rich  girl,  and  baby  can  see  who  ought  to  marry 
who.  Send  the  match-makers  to  old  Makogon." 

"That's  all  very  well !  I  knew  that  without  being 
told.  But  what  about  Galya?" 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  to  the  end?  Or  do  you 
yourself  know  what  I'm  going  to  say?" 

"Come,  come,  don't  get  cross !" 

"You  make  every  one  cross.  I'm  not  the  man  to 
begin  saying  something  and  then  stop  before  I've 
finished.  Now,  to  come  to  Galya.  Used  she  to  love 
you?" 

"I  should  say  she  did !" 

"And  what  were  you  when  she  loved  you?" 

"A  workman  in  the  mill." 

"Then  a  baby  could  understand  that  too.  If  the 
girl  loved  a  workman  once,  let  her  marry  a  workman 
now." 

The  miller's  eyes  grew  as  round  as  saucers  and 
his  head  began  to  go  round  like  a  mill-wheel. 

"But  I'm  not  a  workman  any  longer !" 

"How  dreadful!  And  isn't  there  a  workman  at 
the  mill?" 

"You  mean  Gavrilo?  So  that's  your  idea,  is  it? 
Very  well,  let  him  give  you  a  pair  of  boots  for  it! 
Neither  he  nor  his  uncle  nor  his  aunts  will  ever  see 
me  stand  that  arrangement,  I  can  tell  you !  I'd 
sooner  go  and  break  every  bone  in  his  body." 

"Gracious,  what  a  hot-tempered  fellow  you  are; 
hot  enough  to  boil  an  egg!  I  was  going  to  tell  you 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

something  entirely  different  when  you  boiled  over 
like  this." 

"What  can  you  tell  me  now  seeing  that  that  little 
joke  didn't  please  me?" 

"Just  listen." 

Kharko  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  winked, 
and  clicked  his  tongue  so  sympathetically  the  miller 
felt  better  at  once. 

"And  you — did  you  love  her  though  she  was 
poor?" 

"Yes,  indeed  I  did!" 

"Well,  then,  go  on  loving  her  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent after  she  has  married  the  workman.  And  this 
is  the  end  of  my  speech.  You  three  will  live  at  the 
mill  together  and  the  fourth  fool  won't  count.  Aha ! 
Now  you  know  whether  I  have  brought  you  honey 
or  gall,  don't  you?  Yes  indeed!  Kharko's  head 
is  all  right  because  he  was  always  licked  on  the 
back.  That's  why  he's  such  a  clever  fellow  and 
knows  who  will  get  the  kernel  of  the  nut,  who  will 
get  the  shell,  and  who  will  get  the  pair  of  boots." 

"But  what  if  your  plan  shouldn't  work?" 

"Why  shouldn't  it  work?" 

"For  lots  of  reasons.  Perhaps  old  Makogon  won't 
consent." 

"Bah !    Let  me  talk  to  him." 

"Well,  what  would  you  say?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  I'd  be  on  my  way  from  the  city  with 
a  load  of  vodka.  He'd  be  coming  toward  me.  We'd 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          253 

talk  a  while  and  then  I'd  say :  I've  found  a  husband 
for  your  daughter;  it's  our  miller." 

"And  what  would  he  say?" 

"He'd  say :  'Well  I  never !  Your  grandmother 
never  expected  that !  How  much  is  he  worth?' ' 

"And  what  would  you  answer?" 

"I'd  answer :  Of  course  my  grandmother  never  ex- 
pected it  because  she  died  long  ago,  God  rest  her 
soul!  So  you  don't  know,  I  see,  that  the  devil  has 
carried  away  our  Jew?" 

"  'Then  that's  altogether  different,'  he'd  say.  "  'If 
there's  no  Jew  in  the  village  the  miller  will  be  a  sub- 
stantial man.' ' 

"All  right,  supposing  Makogon  gives  his  consent, 
will  Galya  marry  the  workman?" 

"If  you  drive  the  girl  and  her  mother  out  of  their 
khata  she  will  be  glad  to  live  at  the  mill." 

"I  see— well,  weU " 


VIII 

The  miller  scratched  his  head  in  perplexity,  and 
things  went  on  like  that,  you  must  know,  not  only 
for  a  day  but  for  almost  a  year.  The  miller  had 
hardly  had  time  to  look  about  him  before  St.  Philip's 
day  had  come  and  gone,  and  Easter,  and  Spring,  and 
Summer.  Then  once  again  he  found  himself  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  tavern,  with  Kharko  leaning 


«54          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

against  the  door  post  beside  him.  The  moon  was 
shining  exactly  as  it  had  shone  one  year  before, 
the  river  was  sparkling  as  it  had  sparkled  then,  the 
street  was  just  as  white,  and  the  same  black  shadow 
was  lying  on  the  silver  ground  beside  the  miller. 
And  something  flashed  across  his  memory. 

"Listen  to  me,  Kharko!" 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"What  day  of  the  week  is  it?" 

"Monday." 

"It  was  Saturday  last  year,  do  you  remember?" 

"Saturdays  are  as  thick  as  flies." 

"I  mean  the  Day  of  Atonement  one  year  ago." 

"Oh,  that's  what  you're  thinking  of !  Yes,  it  was 
Saturday  last  year." 

"When  will  the  Day  of  Atonement  be  this  year?" 

"I  can't  say  when  it  will  be.  There's  no  Jew  near 
here  now,  so  I  don't  know." 

"Look  at  the  sky.  It's  clear  and  bright,  just  as 
it  was  that  night." 

And  the  miller  glanced  in  terror  at  the  window 
of  the  Jewish  hut,  afraid  of  seeing  again  those 
Hebrew  children  nodding  their  heads  and  humming 
their  prayers  for  their  daddy  whom  Khapun  was 
carrying  away  over  the  hills  and  dales. 

But  no !  All  that  was  over.  Probably  not  a 
bone  was  left  of  Yankel  by  now;  his  orphans  had 
wandered  away  into  the  wide  world,  and  their  hut 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          255 

was  as  dark  as  a  tomb.  The  miller's  heart  was  as 
full  of  darkness  as  the  deserted  Jewish  khata. 

"I  didn't  save  the  Jew,"  he  thought.  "It  was  I 
who  made  his  children  orphans,  and  now  what  dread- 
ful things  am  I  plotting  against  the  widow's  daugh- 
ter?" 

"Would  it  be  right  for  us  to  do  it?"  he  asked  of 
Kharko. 

"Why  not?  Of  course  there  are  some  people  who 
won't  eat  honey.  Perhaps  you  are  one  of  them." 

"No,  I'm  not  one  of  them,  but  still — well,  good- 
bye!" 

"Good-bye!" 

The  miller  started  down  the  hill,  and  once  more 
Kharko  whistled  after  him.  Although  he  did  not 
whistle  as  insultingly  as  he  had  the  year  before,  it 
flicked  the  miller  on  the  raw. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  whistling,  you  rascal?" 
he  asked,  turning  round. 

"What,  mayn't  a  man  even  whistle?"  Kharko  re- 
torted crossly.  "I  used  to  whistle  when  I  was  orderly 
to  the  Captain,  and  yet  I  mayn't  do  it  here !" 

"After  all,  why  shouldn't  he  whistle?"  the  miller 
thought.  "Only  why  does  everything  happen  just 
as  it  did  that  evening?" 

So  he  walked  away  down  the  hill  and  Kharko 
went  on  whistling,  only  more  softly.  The  miller 
passed  the  garden  where  the  cherry  trees  grew,  and 
once  more  what  seemed  to  be  two  great  birds  rose  out 


256          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

of  the  grass.  Once  more  a  tall  hat  and  a  girl's  white 
blouse  gleamed  in  the  darkness  and  some  one  gave  a 
smack  that  resounded  through  the  bushes.  Ugh,  out 
upon  you !  But  this  time  the  miller  did  not  stop  to 
scold  the  shameless  youngster ;  he  was  afraid  he 
might  get  the  very  same  answer  he  had  had  the  year 
before.  So  our  Philip  went  his  way  quietly  toward 
the  widow's  cottage. 

There  stood  the  little  khata  shimmering  under  the 
moon;  the  tiny  window  was  winking,  and  the  tall 
poplar  seemed  to  be  bathing  in  the  moonlight.  The 
miller  stopped  at  the  stile,  scratched  his  head  under 
his  hat,  and  again  threw  his  leg  across  the  hedge. 

"Knock— knock!" 

"Okh,  there  is  sure  to  be  a  fuss  as  there  was  last 
time,  only  worse,"  thought  the  miller.  "That  infer- 
nal Kharko  with  his  infernal  talk  told  me  just  what 
to  say,  but  now,  when  I  remember  what  he  told  me, 
it  doesn't  somehow  seem  right.  It  doesn't  sound 
common  sense.  But  what  will  be,  will  be !"  and  he 
knocked  again. 

A  pale  face  and  a  pair  of  black  eyes  gleamed  for 
an  instant  at  the  window. 

"Mother,  mother  mine !"  whispered  Galya.  "Here's 
that  wicked  miller  again  standing  at  the  window 
and  tapping  on  the  pane." 

"Ah,  she  doesn't  lean  out  to  put  her  arms  around 
me  and  kiss  me  this  time,  even  by  mistake,"  thought 
the  miller  sadly. 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          857 

The  girl  came  out  softly  and  stood  a  long  way 
off  with  her  arms  folded  on  her  white  breast. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  knocking  again?" 

Alas,  it  is  bitter  for  a  man  to  hear  such  cold 
words  from  the  girl  who  has  been  his  darling  love! 
The  miller  longed  to  embrace  her  girlish  form  and 
show  her  why  he  had  knocked.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
he  was  already  beginning  to  sidle  toward  her  when 
he  remembered  what  Kharko  had  told  him,  and  an- 
swered instead: 

"Why  should  I  not  knock  when  you  owe  me  so 
much  that  you  will  never  be  able  to  pay  me?  Your 
hut  isn't  worth  the  debt." 

"If  you  know  we  shall  never  pay  you,  don't  come 
knocking  at  the  window  by  night,  you  godless  man ! 
You  will  drive  my  old  mother  into  her  grave." 

"Who  the  devil  is  driving  her  into  her  grave, 
Galya?  If  you  only  would  let  me,  I  would  give 
your  mother  a  peaceful  old  age." 

"You're  lying!" 

"No,  I'm  not  lying !  Oi,  Galya,  Galya !  I  can't 
live  without  loving  you !" 

"You  lie  like  a  dog !  Who  was  it  sent  the  match- 
makers to  Makogon?" 

"Whether  I  sent  them  or  not,  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  truth  and  swear  to  it  if  you  like.  I'm  pin- 
ing and  fading  away  without  you.  And  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  just  what  we'll  do,  and  if  you're  a  sensi- 
ble girl  you'll  listen  to  me.  But  I  make  one  condi- 


258          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

tion:  listen  with  your  ears  and  answer  with  your 
tongue.  No  hand  play  this  time!  If  there  is,  I'll 
be  angry." 

"You've  a  funny  way  of  doing  things,"  said  Galya, 
folding  her  arms.  "However,  I'll  listen  to  you;  but 
I  warn  you,  if  you  begin  to  talk  nonsense  don't  call 
on  your  God  to  help  you!" 

"It  won't  be  nonsense.  You  see — oh,  how  did 
Kharko  begin?" 

"Kharko?  What  has  Kharko  to  do  with  you  and 
me?" 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet  or  I  won't  be  able  to  get  any- 
thing straight.  Listen  to  me:  used  you  to  love 
me?" 

"Would  I  have  kissed  an  ugly  face  like  yours  if 
I  hadn't?" 

"And  what  was  I  then,  a  workman  in  the  mill 
or  not?" 

"A  workman,  of  course.  I  wish  to  goodness  you 
had  never  become  a  miller !" 

"Tut,  tut,  don't  talk  so  much  or  I'll  get  mixed 
up !  So  you  see  it  is  clear  that  you  loved  a  work- 
man once  and  that  therefore  you  ought  to  marry  a 
workman  now  and  live  at  the  mill.  And  I  shall  go 
on  loving  you  as  I  always  have,  even  if  I  marry  ten 
Motrias." 

Galya  actually  rubbed  her  eyes ;  she  thought  she 
was  dreaming. 

"What  nonsense  are  you  talking,  man?     Either 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          259 

I'm  absolutely  crazy  or  else  there's  a  screw  loose 
in  your  head.  How  can  I  marry  a  workman  now 
that  you  are  a  miller?  And  how  can  you  marry  me 
when  you're  sending  the  match-makers  to  Motria? 
What  nonsense  you're  talking,  man!  Cross  your- 
self with  your  left  hand!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  answered  the  miller.  "Do 
you  think  I  haven't  a  workman  at  the  mill?  What 
about  Gavrilo?  Isn't  he  one?  He's  a  little  stupid, 
I  know,  but  that  will  be  all  the  better  for  us,  Galya, 
my  darling." 

Only  then  did  the  girl  at  last  understand  what 
the  miller  was  driving  at  with  his  cunning  talk.  You 
should  have  seen  her  throw  up  her  arms  and  heard 
her  scream! 

"Oi,  mother,  dear  mother,  listen  to  what  he  is  say- 
ing !  He  wants  to  turn  Turk  and  to  keep  two  wives ! 
Fetch  the  pitchfork  out  of  the  cottage  quick,  while 
I  settle  him  with  my  hands  !" 

So  she  fell  upon  the  miller,  and  the  miller  fell 
back.  He  escaped  to  the  stile,  put  one  foot  upon 
it,  and  said: 

"Oho!  So  that's  your  game,  little  viper!  Very 
well  then,  quit  this  hut  with  your  mother !  To- 
morrow I'll  take  it  for  your  debts.  Away  with 
you!" 

But  she  shouted  back : 

"Get  out  of  my  garden,  you  Turk,  as  long  as 
it's  mine !  If  you  don't  I'll  scratch  you  with  my 


260          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

nails  so  that  even  your  Motria  won't  know  where 
your  eyes  and  nose  and  mouth  have  been.  Not  only 
will  you  not  have  two  sweethearts,  not  one  will 
look  at  an  eyeless  creature  like  you." 

What  use  to  talk  to  her?  The  miller  spat,  jumped 
quickly  over  the  hedge,  and  left  the  village  in  a  rage. 
When  he  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  from  where 
there  came  to  him  the  murmuring  of  the  stream 
in  the  mill-race,  he  looked  back  and  shook  his  fist. 

And  at  that  moment  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  bell : 
ding,  dong;  ding,  dong!  Again  Kadilo  was  ringing 
the  hour  of  midnight  from  the  village  belfry. 


IX 


The  miller  reached  his  mill.  It  was  all  drenched 
with  dew;  the  moon  was  shining,  the  wood  was  shim- 
mering, and  a  bittern,  that  foul  bird,  was  awake 
and  booming  in  the  reeds,  sleepless,  as  if  it  were  wait- 
ing for  some  one,  as  if  it  were  calling  up  some  one  out 
of  the  pond. 

Dread  fell  upon  Philip  the  miller. 

"Hey !    Gavrilo !"  he  shouted. 

"Oo-oo,  oo-oo !"  answered  the  bittern  from  the 
marsh,  but  not  a  squeak  came  from  the  mill. 

"Oh,  the  confounded  scapegrace!  He's  run  off 
after  the  girls  again."  So  thought  the  miller,  and 
somehow  did  not  feel  like  going  alone  into  the  empty 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          261 

mill.  Although  he  was  used  to  it,  he  sometimes  re- 
membered that  not  only  fish  but  adders  were  to  be 
found  swimming  about  among  the  piles  in  the  dark 
water  under  the  floor. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  city.  The  night 
was  warm  and  bright ;  a  light  mist  was  circling  over 
the  river  that  flowed  through  the  woods,  lost  in 
the  shimmering  murk.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in 
the  sky. 

The  miller  looked  behind  him,  and  wondered 
afresh  at  the  depth  of  his  pond  that  found  room 
in  its  bosom  for  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the 
whole  of  the  dark  blue  sky. 

As  he  gazed  at  the  pond  he  saw  in  the  water  some- 
thing resembling  a  gnat  flying  across  the  stars.  He 
looked  more  closely,  and  saw  the  gnat  grow  to  the 
size  of  a  fly,  and  the  fly  to  a  sparrow,  and  the  spar- 
row to  a  crow,  and  the  crow  to  a  hawk. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned !"  cried  the  miller,  and,  rais- 
ing his  eyes,  he  saw  something  flying  not  through 
the  water  but  through  the  air,  and  making  straight 
for  the  mill. 

"The  Lord  preserve  us !  There's  Khapun  again 
hurrying  to  the  city  after  his  prey.  Look  at  him, 
the  unholy  brute,  how  late  he  is  this  time !  It's  past 
midnight  already,  and  he's  just  starting  out." 

While  the  miller  was  standing  there  staring  up 
at  the  sky,  the  cloud,  which  was  now  as  large  as  an 
eagle,  circled  over  the  mill  and  began  to  descend. 


262          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

Out  of  it  came  a  humming  sound  like  out  of  a  huge 
swarm  of  bees  that  has  left  its  hive  and  is  hovering 
over  a  garden. 

"What!  Is  he  going  to  rest  on  my  dam  again?" 
thought  the  miller.  "What  a  habit  he  makes  of  it 
now!  Wait  a  bit,  mister!  I'll  put  up  a  cross  there 
next  year,  and  then  you  won't  come  stopping  at  my 
dam  on  your  journey  like  a  gentleman  at  an  inn. 
But  what  is  he  making  that  noise  for,  like  those 
rattling  kites  children  fly?  I  must  hide  under  the 
sycamores  again,  and  see  what  he's  going  to  do 
next." 

But  before  he  had  had  time  to  reach  the  trees, 
the  miller  looked  up  and  nearly  shrieked  aloud  with 
terror.  He  saw  his  guest  hovering  right  over  the 
mill  holding — what?  You  will  never  guess  what  the 
devil  held  in  his  clutches. 

It  was  Yankel  the  Jew !  Yes,  he  had  brought  back 
the  selfsame  Yankel  whom  he  had  carried  away  the 
year  before.  He  was  holding  him  tight  by  the  back, 
and  in  Yankel's  hands  was  a  huge  bundle  tied  up  in 
a  sheet.  The  devil  and  Yankel  were  abusing  one 
another  in  the  air,  and  making  as  much  fuss  as  ten 
Jews  in  a  bazaar  squabbling  over  one  peasant. 

The  devil  dropped  on  to  the  dam  like  a  stone. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  soft  bundle  every  bone  in 
Yankel's  body  would  certainly  have  been  broken  to 
pieces.  As  soon  as  they  touched  the  ground  both 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          263 

jumped  to  their  feet  and  went  at  it  again,  hammer 
and  tongs. 

"Oi,  oi!  What  a  dirty,  foul  trick!"  screamed 
Yankel.  "Couldn't  you  have  let  me  down  more 
gently?  I  suppose  you  knew  you  had  a  living  man 
in  your  claws?" 

"I  wish  you  and  your  bundle  had  gone  right 
through  the  earth !" 

"Pooh !  What  harm  does  my  little  bundle  do  you  ? 
You  don't  have  to  carry  it." 

"Your  little  bundle  indeed !  A  whole  mountain  of 
trash!  I  have  only  just  managed  to  drag  you 
back.  Oo-ff!  There  was  nothing  about  this  in  our 
contract." 

"But  when  has  it  ever  been  known  that  a  man  went 
on  a  journey  without  any  baggage?  If  you  carry 
a  man  you  must  carry  his  things  too ;  that's  under- 
stood without  any  contract.  I  see!  You've  been 
trying  to  cheat  poor  Yankel  the  Jew  from  the  very 
start,  and  that's  why  you're  quarrelling  now !" 

"Huh!  Any  one  who  tried  to  cheat  you,  you  old 
fox,  wouldn't  live  three  days !  I'm  precious  sorry 
I  ever  agreed  to  anything!" 

"And  do  you  think  I  am  perfectly  delighted  to 
have  made  your  acquaintance?  Oi,  vei!  You'd  bet- 
ter tell  me  yourself  what  our  contract  was.  But 
you  may  have  forgotten  it,  so  I'll  remind  you.  We 
made  a  bet.  Perhaps  you  will  say  we  didn't  make 
a  bet  ?  That  would  be  a  nice  trick  !" 


264          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

"Who  said  we  didn't  make  a  bet?  Did  I  say  we 
didn't?" 

"And  how  could  you  say  we  didn't,  when  we  made  it 
right  here  in  this  very  place?  Perhaps  you  don't 
remember  what  the  bet  was,  as  I  do.  You  said :  Jews 
are  usurers,  Jews  sell  the  people  vodka,  Jews  have 
pity  on  their  own  people  but  on  no  one  else;  that's 
why  every  one  wishes  them  to  the  devil.  Of  course, 
perhaps  you  didn't  say  that,  and  perhaps  I  didn't 
say  in  answer:  there  stands  a  miller  behind  that 
very  sycamore  tree  who,  if  he  had  any  pity  for 
Jews,  would  shout  to  you  now  and  say:  'Drop  him, 
Mr.  Devil ;  he  has  a  wife,  he  has  children !'  But  he 
won't  do  it.  That  was  number  one !" 

"How  could  the  wretch  have  guessed  that?" 
thought  the  miller ;  but  the  devil  said : 

"Very  well;  number  one!" 

"And  then  I  said — don't  you  remember? — I  said: 
as  soon  as  I've  gone  the  miller  will  open  a  tavern 
and  will  begin  selling  diluted  vodka.  He  lends  money 
already  at  a  fine  rate  of  interest.  That  was  number 
two!" 

"All  right ;  number  two !"  the  devil  agreed,  but 
the  miller  scratched  his  head  and  thought : 

"How  could  the  infernal  brute  have  guessed  all 
that?" 

"And  I  went  on  to  say  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
Christians  did  wish  us  to  the  devil.  But  do  you 
think,  said  I,  that  if  one  of  us  Jews  were  here  now 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          265 

and  saw  what  you  want  to  do  to  me  he  wouldn't 
raise  a  fine  riot?  But  every  one  you  ask  will  say  of 
the  miller  in  a  year:  the  devil  fly  away  with  him! 
That  was  number  three !" 

"All  right ;  number  three.    I  don't  deny  it." 

"And  a  fine  business  it  would  be  if  you  did  deny 
it!  What  sort  of  an  honest  Hebrew  devil  would 
you  be  after  that?  Tell  me  now  what  you  agreed 
to  do  on  your  part." 

"I  have  done  all  I  agreed.  I  have  left  you  alive 
for  a  year;  number  one.  I  have  brought  you  back 
here;  number  two 

"And  what  about  number  three?  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  that?" 

"What  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  do?  If  you 
win  the  bet  I'll  let  you  go  scot  free." 

"And  my  losses?  Don't  you  know  that  you  owe 
me  for  my  losses?" 

"Losses?  What  losses  can  you  have  had  when 
we  allowed  you  to  do  business  with  us  for  a 
whole  year  without  paying  a  license?  You  wouldn't 
have  made  as  much  profit  in  three  years  on  earth. 
Just  think  for  yourself:  I  carried  you  off  in  your 
shirt  without  even  a  pair  of  shoes  to  your  feet,  and 
look  what  a  big  bundle  you've  brought  back !  Where 
did  you  get  it  from  if  you  made  nothing  but  losses  ?" 

"Oi,  vei !  There  you  are  scolding  me  about  my 
bundle  again !  Whatever  I  made  there  by  trading 
is  my  own  business.  Did  you  count  my  profits? 


266          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

I  tell  you  I  made  nothing  but  losses  out  of  my 
dealings  with  you,  besides  losing  a  year  here  on 
earth." 

"Oh,  you  swindler  you!"  shouted  the  devil. 

"I  a  swindler?  No,  you're  a  swindler  yourself,  you 
thief,  you  liar,  you  scab!" 

And  they  began  again  to  wrangle  so  vio- 
lently that  their  words  became  quite  unintelligible. 
They  waved  their  arms,  their  skull-caps  quivered, 
and  they  stood  up  on  tip-toe  like  two  cocks  pre- 
paring to  fight.  The  devil  was  the  first  to  regain 
control  of  himself. 

"But  we  don't  yet  know  who  has  won  the  bet !  It 
is  true  that  the  miller  didn't  take  pity  on  you,  but 
we  haven't  decided  the  other  points  yet.  We  haven't 
asked  the  people  whether  he  opened  a  tavern  or  not." 

"I  have  opened  two !"  the  miller  thought,  scratch- 
ing his  head  again.  "Oh,  why  didn't  I  wait  a  year? 
Then  Yankel  would  have  been  sent  to  the  devil  for 
good,  but  now  something  disagreeable  may  come  of 
it." 

He  looked  round  at  his  mill.  Couldn't  he  pos- 
sibly slip  away  to  the  village  by  crawling  behind 
it?  But  just  as  he  was  contemplating  this  move, 
the  sound  of  muttering  and  of  uncertain  footsteps 
came  to  his  ears  from  the  wood.  Yankel  threw 
his  bundle  over  his  shoulder,  and  ran  to  the  very 
sycamore  tree  where  the  miller  was  hiding.  The 
miller  hardly  had  time  to  slip  behind  a  big  willow 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          267 

tree  before  the  devil  and  Yankel  were  both  under 
the  sycamore,  and  at  that  moment  Gavrilo  appeared 
at  the  far  end  of  the  dam.  Gavrilo's  coat  was  in 
tatters  and  was  hanging  off  one  shoulder;  his  hat 
was  on  one  side  of  his  head,  and  his  bare  feet  were 
continually  quarrelling  with  one  another.  If  one 
wanted  to  go  to  the  right,  the  other,  out  of  con- 
trariness, tried  to  go  to  the  left.  One  pulled  one 
way  and  the  other  the  other,  until  the  poor  man's 
head  and  feet  nearly  flew  off  in  opposite  directions. 
So  the  poor  lad  staggered  along,  weaving  patterns 
all  across  the  dam  from  one  side  to  the  other,  but 
not  progressing  forward  very  fast. 

The  devil  saw  that  Gavrilo  was  full,  so  he  came 
out  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  dam  just  as  he 
was.  Why  the  devil  need  any  one  stand  on  ceremony 
with  a  drunkard? 

"Good  evening,  good  fellow !"  he  called.  "Where 
did  you  get  so  full?" 

As  he  said  this,  the  miller  noticed  for  the  first  time 
how  miserable  and  ragged  Gavrilo  had  grown  dur- 
ing the  last  year.  And  it  was  all  because  lie  drank 
up  at  his  master's  tavern  everything  that  he  earned 
from  his  master.  It  was  long  since  he  had  seen  any 
money ;  he  took  it  all  out  in  vodka. 

The  workman  walked  right  up  to  the  devil,  saying : 

"Whoa  there !  What  has  come  over  these  devilish 
feet  of  mine?  When  I  want  them  to  walk,  they 


268          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

stop ;  when  they  see  any  one  standing  under  my  very 
nose,  they  rush  on  ahead.  Who  are  you?" 

"With  your  permission,  I  am  the  devil." 

"Wha-at?  I  believe  you're  lying.  Well,  I  never! 
But  perhaps  you  are  right  after  all !  There  are  your 
horns  and  your  tail,  just  as  they  ought  to  be.  But 
why  do  you  wear  ringlets  hanging  down  your 
cheeks  ?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  the  Hebrew  devil" 

"Aha!  There's  a  marvel  for  you!  If  I  were  to 
tell  people  I  had  seen  your  honour  no  one  would  be- 
lieve me.  Wasn't  it  you  who  carried  off  our  Yankel 
last  year?" 

"Yes,  it  was  I." 

"And  whom  are  you  after  now?  Not  me?  If 
you  are,  I  swear  I'll  yell.  Yes,  I'll  yell  like  mad. 
You  don't  know  what  a  voice  I  have." 

"Come,  don't  scream  for  nothing,  good  fellow. 
What  good  would  you  be  to  me?" 

"Then  perhaps  it's  the  miller  you  want?  If  you'd 
like  me  to  call  him,  I  will.  But  no,  wait  a  bit.  Who 
would  be  our  inn-keeper  if  you  took  him  away?" 

"Does  he  keep  an  inn?" 

"Does  he?  He  keeps  two:  one  in  the  village  and 
one  by  the  side  of  the  road." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  And  is  that  why  you  would  be 
sorry  to  lose  the  miller?" 

"Oi,  what  a  loud  laugh  you  have !  Ha !  I'm  not 
the  fellow  to  be  sorry  on  the  miller's  account.  No,  I 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          269 

didn't  mean  that  at  all.  He's  not  a  man  to  be  sorry 
for.  He  thinks  poor  Gavrilo's  a  fool.  And  he's 
right  too.  I'm  not  very  clever — don't  think  ill  of 
me  for  it — but  still,  when  I  eat  I  don't  put  my  por- 
ridge in  another  man's  mouth,  but  into  my  own.  And 
if  I  get  married  it  will  be  for  myself,  and  if  I  don't 
get  married  it  will  be  for  myself  too.  Am  I  right  or 
not?" 

"You're  right,  you're  right,  but  I  don't  yet  know 
what  you're  driving  at." 

"Hee,  hee,  perhaps  you  don't  know  because  you 
don't  need  to.  But  I  need  to  know,  and  I  do  know 
why  he  wants  to  get  me  married.  Oi,  I  know  it  very 
well,  even  though  I'm  not  very  bright.  When  you 
carried  Yankel  away  that  time  I  was  sorry  to  see  him 
go,  and  I  said  to  my  master:  Well,  who  is  going 
to  keep  the  inn  for  us  now?  And  he  answered: 
Bah,  you  fool,  do  you  think  some  one  won't  turn  up? 
Perhaps  I'll  keep  it  myself!  That's  why  I  say 
now :  take  the  miller  if  you  want  him ;  we'll  find 
some  one  else  to  be  a  Jew  in  his  place.  And  now 
let  me  tell  you,  my  good  man — good  gracious,  your 
honour,  don't  think  ill  of  me  for  calling  a  foul  fiend 
a  man ! — and  now  let  me  tell  you  something :  I'm  get- 
ting terribly  sleepy.  Do  as  you  please,  but  catch 
him  yourself ;  I'm  going  to  bed,  I  am,  because  I'm  not 
very  well.  That  will  be  splendid.  Ah !" 
1  Gavrilo's  legs  began  weaving  again,  and  he  had 


270          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

hardly  opened  the  door  of  the  mill  before  he  fell 
down  and  began  to  snore. 

The  devil  laughed  merrily,  and,  going  to  the  edge 
of  the  dam,  beckoned  to  Yankel  where  he  stood  un- 
der the  sycamore  tree. 

"You  seem  to  have  won,  Yankel,"  he  shouted.  "It 
looks  very  much  like  it.  But  give  me  something  to 
wear,  all  the  same ;  I'll  pay  you  for  it." 

Yankel  took  a  pair  of  breeches  to  the  light  and 
looked  them  over  to  be  sure  he  wasn't  giving  the 
devil  a  new  pair,  and  while  he  was  busy  with  them, 
an  ox-cart  appeared  on  the  road  leading  out  of 
the  wood.  The  oxen  were  sleepily  nodding  their 
heads,  the  wheels  were  quietly  squeaking,  and  in  the 
cart  lay  a  peasant,  Opanas  the  Slow,  without  a  coat, 
without  a  hat,  without  boots,  bawling  a  song  at  the 
top  of  his  voice. 

Opanas  was  a  good  peasant,  but  the  poor  fellow 
sorely  loved  vodka.  Whenever  he  dressed  up  to  go 
anywhere  Kharko  would  be  sure  to  call  to  him  from 
his  look-out  at  the  inn-door: 

"Won't  you  drink  a  little  mugful,  Opanas?  What's 
your  hurry?" 

And  Opanas  would  drink  it. 

Then,  when  he  had  crossed  the  dam  and  reached 
the  village,  the  miller  himself  would  call  to  him  from 
the  door  of  the  other  tavern : 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  have  a  little  mugful, 
Opanas?  What's  the  hurry?" 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          871 

And  Opanas  would  have  another  drink  there. 
First  thing  you  knew  he  would  turn  home  without 
having  been  anywhere  else  at  all. 

Yes,  he  was  a  good  peasant,  but  fate  had  ordained 
him  always  to  fall  between  the  two  taverns.  And  yet 
he  was  a  merry  fellow  and  was  always  singing 
songs.  That  is  man's  nature.  When  he  has  drunk 
up  everything  he  possesses  and  knows  that  an  angry 
wife  is  waiting  for  him  at  home,  he  will  make  up  a 
song  and  think  he  has  got  rid  of  his  troubles. 
And  so  it  was  with  Opanas.  He  was  lying  in  his 
wagon  singing  so  loudly  that  even  the  frogs  jumped 
into  the  water  as  he  drove  up,  and  this  was  his  song : 

"Oxen,  oxen,  how  you  crawl, 
Walking  down  the  road; 
If  I  stood  up,  I  should  fall, 
Oi,  I'd  surely   fall. 
I've  drunk  up  my  coat  and  hat, 
The  boots  from  off  my  feet; 
In  the  inn,  I'll  swear  to  that, 
The  miller's  vodka's  sweet. 

"Oi,  what  is  that  devilish  brute  standing  right  in 
the  middle  of  the  dam  for,  keeping  my  oxen  from 
crossing?  If  I  wasn't  too  tired  to  get  out  of  the 
cart,  I'd  show  him  how  to  plant  himself  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  Gee,  gee,  gee-up !" 

"Stop  a  minute,  my  good  man!"  said  the  devil 
very  sweetly.  "I  want  to  have  a  minute's  talk  with 
you." 

"A  minute's  talk?    All  right  then,  talk  away,  only 


272          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

I'm  in  a  hurry.  The  tavern  at  Novokamensk  will 
soon  be  closed  so  that  no  one  can  get  in.  But  I 
don't  know  what  you  want  to  talk  about ;  I  don't 
know  you.  Well?" 

"About  whom  were  you  singing  that  pretty  song?" 

"Thank  you  for  praising  it !  I  was  singing  about 
the  miller  that  lives  in  this  mill,  but  whether  the 
song  was  pretty  or  not  is  my  own  affair,  because  I 
was  singing  it  to  myself.  Perhaps  some  people 
would  fly  when  they  heard  the  song,  perhaps  some 
would  cry.  Gee,  gee,  gee-up !  What !  Are  you  still 
standing  there?" 

"I'm  still  standing  here." 

"What  for?" 

"You  said  in  your  song  that  the  miller's  vodka  is 
good.  Is  that  so?" 

"Aha,  now  I  see  how  sly  you  are!  You  begin 
quarrelling  with  a  man's  song  before  he  has  sung 
it  to  the  end.  That's  the  devil's  own  trick!  You 
don't  know  the  proverb,  I  see :  don't  go  to  hell  before 
your  father;  if  you  do,  you'll  be  sorry.  If  that's 
how  you  feel,  I'd  better  sing  my  song  to  the  end,  so 
here  goes: 

Yes,  the  vodka  in  the  inn 
Is    good  as  any  sold; 
Two  parts  of  it  are  liquor, 
One  is  water  cold. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  then !  What  are  you  stand- 
ing there  for?  What  do  you  want  now?  Wait  a 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          273 

minute  till  I  get  out  of  my  wagon  and  find  out 
whether  you're  going  to  stand  there  much  longer! 
What  would  you  think  if  I  gave  you  a  taste  of  my 
stick,  hey?" 

"I'm  going  in  a  minute,  my  good  man,  only  tell  me 
one  thing  more.  What  would  you  think  if  the  devil 
flew  away  with  your  miller  here  as  he  flew  away  with 
Yankel?" 

"What  would  I  think?  I  wouldn't  think  anything 
at  all.  He'll  get  him  some  day,  that's  certain ;  he'll 
surely  get  him.  But  you're  still  standing  there,  I 
see.  Take  care,  I'm  climbing  out  of  my  wagon! 
Look,  I've  already  raised  one  leg !" 

"All  right,  all  right,  go  along  with  you  if  you're 
as  cross  as  all  that!" 

"Are  you  out  of  the  way?" 

"Yes." 

"Gee,  gee,  gee-up !" 

The  oxen  shook  their  horns,  the  yoke  and  axles 
creaked,  the  wagon  trembled,  and  Opanas  continued 
his  song: 

"Oxen,  oxen,  how  you  crawl, 
Hurry  up  and  trot. 
The  miller  has  my  coat  and  wheels, 
So  now  he  has  the  lot." 

The  wheels  bumped  down  off  the  dam,  and  Opanas' 
song  died  away  behind  the  hill. 

But  before  it  had  quite  died  away  another  song 
rang  out  from  across  the  river.  A  ringing  chorus  of 


274          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

women's  voices  came  streaming  through  the  night, 
first  from  afar,  and  then  from  in  the  wood.  A  party 
of  women  and  girls,  who  had  been  gathering  in  the 
harvest  on  a  distant  farm,  were  now  on  their  way 
home  late  at  night,  and  were  singing  to  give  them- 
selves courage  in  the  wood. 

The  devil  at  once  slipped  to  Yankel's  side  under  the 
willow  tree. 

"Come,  give  me  something  more  to  wear,  quick!" 

Yankel  handed  him  a  heap  of  rags.  The  devil 
hurled  them  to  the  ground,  and  seized  the  bundle. 

"Here!  What  do  you  mean  by  giving  me  these 
rags  as  if  I  were  a  beggar?  I'd  be  ashamed  to  be 
seen  in  them.  Give  me  something  respectable!" 

The  devil  seized  what  he  wanted,  folded  his  wings, 
which  were  as  soft  as  a  bat's,  in  a  second,  jumped 
like  a  flash  into  a  pair  of  blue  breeches  as  wide  as 
the  sea,  threw  on  the  rest  of  his  clothes,  drew  his 
belt  tight,  and  covered  his  horns  with  a  high  fur 
hat.  Only  his  tail  hung  out  over  the  top  of  one 
boot,  and  trailed  along  in  the  sand  like  a  snake. 

Then  he  smacked  his  lips,  stamped  his  foot,  stuck 
his  arms  akimbo,  and  went  out  to  meet  the  lasses, 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  any  young  townsman, 
or  perhaps  some  would-be  gentleman  steward. 

He  planted  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  dam. 

The  song  rang  out  nearer  and  nearer  and  clearer 
and  clearer,  floating  away  under  the  bright  moon 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          275 

until  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  wake  the  whole  of  the 
sleeping  world.  Then  it  suddenly  broke  off  short. 

The  young  women  poured  out  of  the  wood  as  pop- 
pies might  pour  out  of  a  girl's  apron,  saw  the  long- 
tailed  dandy  standing  before  them,  and  instantly  hud- 
dled together  in  a  group  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
dam. 

"Who  is  that  standing  there?"  asked  one  of  the 
girls. 

"It's  the  miller,"  answered  another. 

"The  miller!  Why,  it  doesn't  look  like  him  one 
bit!" 

"Perhaps  it's  his  workman." 

"Who  ever  saw  a  workman  dressed  like  that?" 

"Tell  us  who  you  are  if  you're  not  a  bad  spirit!" 
called  the  widow  Buchilikha,  evidently  the  boldest  of 
the  party. 

The  devil  bowed  to  them  from  a  distance,  and 
then  approached,  cringing  and  scraping  like  any 
little  upstart  who  tries  to  appear  a  gentleman. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  birdies,"  said  he.  "I'm  a 
young  man,  but  I  won't  do  you  any  harm.  Come  on, 
and  don't  be  afraid." 

Each  trying  to  push  the  other  ahead,  the  women 
and  girls  stepped  on  to  the  dam,  and  soon  surrounded 
the  devil.  Ah,  there  is  nothing  pleasanter  than  to  be 
surrounded  by  a  dozen  or  so  frolicsome  lasses  bom- 
barding you  with  swift  glances,  nudging  one  another 
with  their  elbows,  and  giggling.  The  devil's  heart 


276          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

was  beginning  to  leap  and  sparkle  a  little,  like  birch 
bark  in  a  fire ;  he  hardly  knew  what  to  do  or  where  to 
turn.  And  the  girls  kept  laughing  at  him  louder 
and  louder. 

"That's  right,  that's  right,  little  birdies  !"  thought 
the  miller,  peering  out  from  behind  his  gnarled 
willow-tree.  "Remember,  my  duckies,  how  many 
songs  Philipko  has  sung  with  you,  how  many  dances 
he  has  led !  See  what  trouble  I'm  in !  Save  me ;  I'm 
caught  like  a  fly  in  a  cobweb !" 

He  thought  that  if  only  they  were  to  give  the  devil 
one  little  pinch  the  fiend  would  sink  into  the  ground. 

But  old  Buchilikha  stopped  the  girls  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"Get  along  with  you,  little  magpies,  you've  laughed 
at  the  poor  lad  till  his  nose  hangs  down  and  his 
arms  are  limp.  Tell  us,  young  fellow,  for  whom  are 
you  waiting  here  at  the  edge  of  the  pond  ?" 

"For  the  miller." 

"Then  you're  a  friend  of  his  ?" 

"A  plague  upon  any  friend  of  mine  that's  like 
him !"  the  miller  tried  to  cry,  but  his  words  stuck  in 
his  throat,  and  the  devil  replied: 

"He's  no  very  great  friend  of  mine,  but  I  can  call 
him  an  old  acquaintance." 

"Is  it  long  since  you've  seen  him?" 

"Yes,  a  long  time." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  recognise  him  now.  He 
used  to  be  a  nice  lad,  but  he  holds  his  head  so  high 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          277 

now  that  you  couldn't  touch  his  nose  with  a  pitch- 
fork." 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  indeed.    It's  true,  isn't  it,  girls  ?" 

"It's  true,  true,  true !"  chattered  the  whole  bevy. 

"Tut,  tut,  not  quite  so  loud !"  cried  the  devil,  put- 
ting his  fingers  in  his  ears.  "Tell  me :  what  has  hap- 
pened to  him,  and  since  when  has  he  changed?" 

"Since  he  grew  rich." 

"And  began  to  lend  money." 

"And  opened  a  tavern." 

"He  and  his  horrid  Kharko  have  fuddled  my  hus- 
band Opanas  so  that  the  poor  man  never  goes  any- 
where now  except  to  the  tavern." 

"He  has  ruined  our  husbands  and  fathers  with 
his  drink." 

"Oi,  oi,  he's  a  misery  to  us  all,  the  horrid  miller !" 
screamed  one  of  the  band,  and  in  place  of  their  songs, 
a  chorus  of  wails  and  women's  lamentations  rang  out 
across  the  river. 

Philip  rather  scratched  his  head  to  hear  the  way 
the  young  women  were  interceding  for  him.  But  the 
devil's  mind  now  seemed  to  be  quite  made  up.  He 
glanced  at  the  girls  out  of  one  corner  of  his  eye  and 
rubbed  his  hands  together. 

"And  that  isn't  all !"  shouted  the  widow  Buchilikha 
louder  than  the  loudest.  "Have  you  heard  what  he 
wanted  to  do  to  the  widow's  Galya?" 

"Faugh!"  spat  the  miller.    "What  a  damned  lot 


278          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

of  magpies  they  are !  What  need  to  tell  what  they're 
not  asked  about?  And  how  in  the  world  did  they 
find  it  out?  Though  it  only  happened  in  the  vil- 
lage to-night,  they  have  heard  the  whole  story  in 
the  hay-fields !  Why  on  earth  does  God  allow  women 
to  live  in  this  world?" 

"And  what  did  my  friend  try  to  do  to  the  widow's 
daughter?"  asked  the  devil,  looking  about  him  as  if 
he  weren't  particularly  interested  in  the  story. 

So  the  magpies  went  on  to  tell  him  everything, 
talking  all  at  once,  and  laid  the  whole  affair  before 
him  from  beginning  to  end. 

The  devil  shook  his  head. 

"Oi,  oi,  oi!  That's  bad,  very  bad.  I  don't  sup- 
pose any  one  ever  heard  of  your  former  inn-keeper 
Yankel  doing  anything  like  that?" 

"Oh,  what  Jew  ever  thought  of  doing  such  a 
thing?" 

"Oh,  no,  never!" 

"I  see,  my  daisies,  my  little  peaches,  that  you 
don't  love  my  friend  very  much." 

"Let  him  get  the  love  of  all  the  devils ;  he  needn't 
expect  any  from  us  !" 

"Oi,  oi,  oi,  you  don't  wish  him  much  good,  I  see !" 

"May  the  fever  take  him  and  shake  him  to  pieces !" 

"May  he  follow  his  uncle  into  the  pond !" 

"May  the  devil  carry  him  off  as  he  carried  off 
Yankel!" 

They  all  burst  out  laughing. 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          279 

"You  are  right,  Olena ;  he  is  worse  than  a  Jew." 

"At  least  the  Jew  was  a  decent  fellow;  he  let  the 
girls  alone  and  lived  with  his  Sarah." 

The  devil  actually  jumped  in  his  tracks. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  birdies,  for  your 
friendly  words.  Isn't  it  time  for  you  to  be  going 
on?" 

With  that  he  threw  back  his  head  like  a  cock  that 
intends  to  give  an  extra  loud  crow,  and  burst  into 
a  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter.  He  laughed  so 
loud  that  all  the  evil  spirits  on  the  bed  of  the 
river  woke  up,  and  circles  began  spreading  across 
the  surface  of  the  pond.  But  the  girls  shied  away 
from  him  like  a  flock  of  sparrows  into  which  some 
one  has  thrown  a  stone,  and  vanished  as  if  the  wind 
had  suddenly  blown  them  off  the  dam. 

The  goose-flesh  ran  up  and  down  the  miller's  back, 
and  he  stared  down  the  road  that  led  to  the  village. 

"The  best  thing  for  me  to  do,"  he  thought,  "is 
to  make  off  after  those  girls  as  fast  as  my  legs  will 
carry  me.  I  used  to  be  able  to  run  with  the  best." 

But  at  that  moment  he  suddenly  felt  relieved,  for 
he  saw  some  one  coming  toward  the  mill-dam.  And  it 
wasn't  just  any  one,  either,  but  his  own  servant 
Kharko. 

"A  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile !"  he  thought.  "There 
is  my  man !" 


280          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 


The  servant  was  barefooted ;  he  was  wearing  a  red 
shirt;  a  cap  without  a  brim  was  stuck  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  on  a  stick  he  was  carrying  Opanas' 
new  boots,  which  were  dripping  tar  all  over  the  dam. 

"What  a  hurry  he's  in !"  thought  the  miller.  "He's 
got  hold  of  the  boots  already.  But  never  mind,  all 
my  hopes  are  centred  on  him  now." 

As  soon  as  the  servant  caught  sight  of  a  stranger 
on  the  dam  he  instantly  thought  that  here  was  some 
thieving  tramp  waiting  to  steal  his  boots.  So  he 
stopped  a  few  steps  from  Khapun  and  said : 

"You'd  better  not  come  any  nearer,  I  warn  you! 
I  won't  give  them  up!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Come  to  your 
senses,  good  man!  Haven't  I  boots  of  my  own? 
Look,  they  are  better  than  yours !" 

"Then  why  have  you  planted  yourself  there  by 
night,  like  a  crooked  willow  tree  by  a  pond?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"Splendid!  A  riddle  is  it,  eh?  Who  told  you  I 
could  answer  riddles  better  than  any  one  else?" 

"Ha,  ha,  I've  heard  people  say  so !" 

The  soldier  set  down  his  boots,  took  out  his  to- 
bacco-pouch, and  began  filling  his  pipe.  Then  he 
struck  a  light  with  a  flint,  and,  blowing  out  a  thick 
cloud  of  smoke  from  under  his  nose,  said : 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT  281 

"Now,  then,  spout  it  out.   What's  your  riddle?" 

"It  isn't  exactly  a  riddle.  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
who  you  think  is  the  best  man  in  this  neighbour- 
hood?" 

"I  am!" 

"And  why  do  you  think  that?  Isn't  there  any 
one  here  better  than  you  are?" 

"You  ask  me  what  I  think.  Very  well,  I  answer 
that  I  won't  give  the  first  place  to  any  one." 

"You're  right.  And  the  miller,  what  sort  of  a  man 
is  he?" 

"The  miller?" 

The  soldier  blew  out  of  his  mouth  a  cloud  of  smoke 
that  looked  as  large  in  the  moonlight  as  the  tail  of 
a  white  horse.  Then  he  eyed  the  devil  askance  and 
asked : 

"You're  not  a  Customs  officer,  are  you?" 

"No !" 

"And  you're  not  in  the  police — a  detective,  by  any 
chance?" 

"No,  no,  I  tell  you!  What,  a  clever  chap  like 
you,  and  you  can't  even  see  when  a  man's  just  an  or- 
dinary fellow  and  when  he  isn't?" 

"Who  said  I  couldn't?  I  can  see  through  and 
through  you.  I  only  asked  that  on  the  chance. 
And  now,  let  me  see;  you  asked  me  what  sort  of 
man  the  miller  was  ?" 

"Yes." 


282          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

"Well,  he's  just  about  medium  height,  neither 
very  large  nor  very  small;  a  good  average." 

"Oh,  that's  not  what  I  wanted  to  know !" 

"Isn't  it  ?  What  more  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  ? 
Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  where  his  warts  are, 
if  he  has  any?" 

"You're  trying  to  throw  dust  in  my  eyes  I  see, 
but  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Tell  me  in  plain  words :  is  the 
miller  a  good  man  or  a  bad  one?" 

The  soldier  blew  another  huge  tail  of  smoke  out  of 
his  mouth  and  said : 

"What  a  hasty  fellow  you  are!  You  like  to  eat, 
but  you  won't  chew." 

The  devil  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  the  miller's 
heart  jumped  for  joy. 

"What  a  tongue  that  boy  has !"  he  thought.  "And 
yet  how  often  have  I  wished  that  it  might  drop  off. 
But  now  it  has  come  in  useful.  How  he  is  roasting 
the  devil!" 

"You  like  to  eat,  but  you  won't  chew,  I  tell  you !" 
the  soldier  repeated  sternly.  "You  want  me  to  tell 
you  whether  the  miller  is  a  good  man  or  not.  Every 
man's  good  in  my  opinion.  I've  eaten  bread  from 
many  a  stove,  friend.  I  wouldn't  even  cough  where 
you  would  die  of  suffocation.  Do  you  think  you've 
struck  a  fool  in  me?" 

"Splendid !  Splendid !  Give  it  to  him  hard !"  the 
miller  said  to  himself,  dancing  with  joy.  "My  name 
isn't  Philip  the  miller  if  the  devil  doesn't  look  more 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          283 

foolish  than  a  sheep  before  half  an  hour  is  over!  I 
read  so  fast  in  church  that  no  one  can  understand 
me,  but  he  talks  quietly,  and  yet  just  listen  to  what 
he  is  saying!" 

And  in  fact  the  poor  devil  was  scratching  his  head 
so  hard  that  he  was  nearly  knocking  his  hat  off. 

"Hold  on,  soldier!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  and  I 
seem  to  run  on  and  on  and  never  get  anywhere. 
We're  all  tangled  up." 

"I  don't  know  about  you,  but  there's  no  tangle  I 
can't  get  out  of." 

"But  look  here ;  I  asked  you  whether  the  miller  was 
a  good  man  or  not,  and  see  where  you've  led  me !" 

"Then  let  me  ask  you  a  question :  is  water  good  or 
not?" 

"Water?    What's  the  matter  with  water?" 

"But  if  there  was  kvass  *  about  you  would  turn 
up  your  nose  at  water,  wouldn't  you?  Water  would 
seem  tasteless,  then,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  would." 

"And  if  there  was  beer  on  the  table  you  wouldn't 
drink  kvass,  would  you?" 

"No,  certainly  not." 

"And  if  some  one  brought  you  a  mug  of  gorelka 
you  wouldn't  look  at  beer,  eh?" 

"You're  quite  right." 

"Very  well  then,  you  see!" 

*  Kvass:  a  foamy,  fermented  drink,  made  of  brown  flour 
and  hops. 


284          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

The  devil  broke  out  into  a  sweat,  and  the  tail 
hanging  out  from  under  his  coat  beat  the  ground 
till  it  actually  raised  a  cloud  of  dust  from  the  dam. 
The  soldier  threw  the  stick  with  his  boots  on  it  over 
his  shoulder  and  was  preparing  to  take  his  departure 
when  the  devil  thought  of  a  way  he  might  catch  him. 
He  stepped  a  few  steps  to  one  side,  and  said : 

"Well, — go  along,  go  along!  I  shall  wait  here  a 
little  while  longer  in  case  Kharko  the  soldier  should 
happen  to  come  by." 

The  soldier  stopped. 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?" 

"Nothing  much,  but  they  tell  me  that  Kharko  is 
a  bright  fellow  and  that  he  knows  a  thing  or  two ! 
I  thought  at  first  you  were  he.  But  now  I  see  I 
was  wrong.  One  simply  goes  round  and  round  in  a 
circle  with  you,  and  can't  get  going  to  save  one's 
life." 

The  soldier  set  down  his  boots. 

"Come  on,  ask  me  another  question !" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?" 

"Try !" 

"Very  well,  then:  tell  me,  whom  did  you  like  the 
best,  Yank  el  the  inn-keeper,  or  the  miller?" 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  that  at  once?  I  don't 
like  people  that  hunt  for  their  beards  alongside  their 
noses.  Some  people  would  rather  walk  ten  versts 
through  the  fields  than  go  one  verst  by  the  straight 
road.  But  I'll  answer  you  straight  to  the  point,  as 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          285 

they  say.  Yankel  kept  one  inn,  but  the  miller  keeps 
two." 

"Oh,  hang  him,  he  needn't  have  said  that !"  thought 
the  miller,  miserably.  "It  would  have  been  ever  so 
much  better  if  he  hadn't  referred  to  it." 

But  the  soldier  continued : 

"When  I  worked  for  Yankel,  I  wore  bast  shoes, 
now  I  wear  boots  !" 

"From  where  did  you  get  them?" 

"From  where,  eh?  Our  business  is  like  a  well  with 
two  buckets.  One  bucket  fills  and  the  other  grows 
empty.  One  goes  up  and  the  other  goes  down.  I 
used  to  wear  bast  shoes ;  now  I  wear  boots.  Opanas 
used  to  wear  boots;  now  he  goes  barefoot  because 
he's  a  fool.  The  bucket  comes  to  the  wise  man  full 
and  goes  away  empty.  Now  do  you  understand?" 

The  devil  listened  attentively,  and  said: 

"Wait  a  minute!  At  last  we  seem  to  be  getting 
somewhere !" 

"But  I've  been  telling  you  the  same  thing  all  along. 
If  you  call  Yankel  kvass,  then  the  miller  is  beer; 
but  if  you  were  to  give  me  a  glass  of  good  vodka,  I 
should  let  the  beer  alone." 

The  tip  of  the  devil's  tail  skipped  about  so  madly 
on  the  sand  that  Kharko  noticed  it  at  last.  He  blew 
a  puff  of  smoke  right  into  the  devil's  face,  and  put 
his  foot  on  the  tail  as  if  by  accident.  The  devil 
jumped,  and  yelped  like  a  great  dog.  Both  he  and 
Kharko  took  fright;  they  opened  their  eyes  wide, 


286          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

and  stood  for  half  a  minute  staring  at  one  another 
without  saying  a  word. 

At  last  Kharko  whistled  in  that  insolent  way  of 
his,  and  said: 

"Ah,  ha !  ah,  ha !    So  that's  the  game,  is  it?" 

"And  what  did  you  think?"  asked  the  devil. 

"Now  I  know  the  kind  of  a  queer  bird  you  are!" 

"I'm  what  you  see  I  am." 

"Then  you're  the  one  who — last  year — ?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  you're — after  him?" 

"You're  right.  And  what  do  you  think  of  my 
plan?" 

Kharko  stretched  his  limbs,  blew  a  puff  of  smoke, 
and  answered: 

"Take  him!  I  won't  cry  over  him.  I'm  a  poor 
man.  It's  none  of  my  business.  I'll  sit  in  the  inn 
smoking  my  pipe  till  a  third  one  comes  along." 

Once  more  the  devil  roared  with  laughter,  but  the 
soldier  only  slung  his  boots  across  his  back  and 
walked  rapidly  away.  As  he  passed  the  sycamore 
tree  the  miller  heard  him  muttering  to  himself : 

"So  that's  the  game,  is  it?  He's  carried  off  one 
and  now  he's  come  back  for  the  other.  Well,  it's 
none  of  my  business.  When  the  devil  got  the  Jew 
the  miller  got  the  goods.  Now  he's  come  for  the 
miller  and  the  goods  will  be  mine.  A  soldier  is  his 
own  master.  Now  that  I've  the  business  in  my  own 
hands,  let's  see  if  I  can't  keep  it.  I'll  not  be  poor 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          287 

Kharko  any  longer,  but  Mr.  Khariton  Tregubov. 
Only  I'm  not  a  fool.  No  temptation  on  earth  will  ever 
take  me  on  to  this  dam  at  night." 

And  with  that  he  began  climbing  the  hill. 

The  miller  stared  from  side  to  side.  Who  would 
help  him  now?  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  Darkness 
was  falling ;  a  frog  was  croaking  sleepily  in  the  mud ; 
a  bittern  was  booming  angrily  in  the  reeds.  The 
edge  of  the  moon  was  peeping  over  the  woods  as  if 
asking:  "What  will  become  of  Philip  the  miller 
now?" 

It  looked  at  him,  winked,  and  set  behind  the  trees. 

The  devil  stood  on  the  dam  holding  his  sides  with 
laughter.  His  shouts  of  merriment  shook  the  floury 
dust  out  of  every  cranny  in  the  old  mill;  all  the 
spirits  of  the  forest  and  pond  awoke  and  came  flitting 
toward  him,  some  floating  like  shadows  out  of  the 
wood,  some  hanging  like  filmy  clouds  over  the  water. 
The  pond  stirred,  streaks  of  swirling  white  vapour 
rose  from  it,  and  ripples  ran  in  circles  across  its 
surface.  The  miller  gave  it  one  look,  and  his  blood 
ran  cold :  a  blue  face  with  dull,  staring  eyes  was  glar- 
ing up  at  him  out  of  the  water,  its  long  whiskers 
waving  like  the  antennas  of  a  water-beetle.  Who 
could  it  be  but  his  uncle,  rising  from  the  pond  and 
coming  straight  toward  the  sycamore  tree? 

Yankel  the  Jew  had  long  since  crept  silently  out 
on  to  the  dam,  picked  up  the  clothes  which  the  devil 
had  discarded,  slipped  across  to  the  sycamore  tree, 


288          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

and  hastily  tied  up  his  bundle.  There  was  no  more 
mention  of  losses  now;  any  man  would  have  been 
afraid  to  mention  them,  I  can  tell  you!  Losses  be 
hanged!  Yankel  hoisted  his  bundle  on  to  his  back 
and  shuffled  quietly  away,  following  the  others  along 
the  path  that  led  from  the  mill  to  the  village. 

The  miller  made  a  rush  for  his  mill;  once  there, 
at  least  he  would  be  able  to  lock  himself  in  or  else 
wake  his  workman!  But  he  had  hardly  quitted  his 
tree  before  the  devil  jumped  after  him.  Philip 
dashed  into  the  mill,  slammed  the  door,  rushed  into 
his  room,  hurriedly  lit  a  light,  and  fell  down  on  the 
floor  screaming  with  might  and  main,  just  like — 
what  do  you  think  ? — the  Jews  in  their  synagogue ! 

And  the  devil  circled  over  the  mill,  stuck  his  in- 
quisitive nose  in  at  the  window,  and  couldn't  make 
out  how  to  get  at  the  tempting  morsel  before  him. 

Suddenly,  bang!  Something  dropped  to  the  floor 
with  a  thump  as  if  a  huge  cat  had  jumped  into  the 
room.  That  confounded  devil  had  come  down  the 
chimney !  The  fiend  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  next 
instant  the  miller  felt  him  sitting  on  his  back,  dig- 
ging his  claws  into  his  flesh. 

What  could  he  do? 

Suddenly,  another  bang!  Darkness  fell,  and  the 
devil  was  dragging  the  miller  through  a  black,  nar- 
row hole.  The  miller  smelt  clay,  clouds  of  soot  rose 
about  him,  and  all  at  once  he  saw  lying  below  him 
the  chimney  and  the  roof  of  the  mill,  growing  smaller 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          289 

and  smaller  every  second,  as  if  they  and  the  dam  and 
the  sycamore  trees  and  the  pond  were  falling  into  a 
bottomless  pit.  And  there  lay  the  sky,  reflected  up- 
side-down in  the  calm  mill-pond  spread  out  below 
them  as  smooth  as  a  platter,  and  in  it  the  peaceful 
stars  were  twinkling  as  they  had  always  twinkled 
before.  And  the  miller  saw  flying  across  those  dark 
blue  depths  a  form  that  looked  first  like  a  hawk,  and 
then  like  a  crow,  and  then  like  a  sparrow,  and  then 
like  a  large  fly. 

"He  is  taking  me  ever  so  high !"  thought  the  miller. 
"There  go  your  profits  for  you,  Philipko,  and  your 
inns,  and  all  your  fine  show !  Is  there  no  Christian 
soul  who  will  call  to  him:  Drop  it,  it  is  mine?" 

But  Christian  soul  there  was  none !  Below  him 
slept  the  mill,  and  out  of  the  pond  the  monstrous 
face  of  his  uncle  alone  was  glaring  at  him  with  glassy 
eyes,  laughing  to  itself  and  waving  its  whiskers. 

Farther  on  the  Jew  was  still  crawling  up  the  hill, 
stooping  under  his  heavy  white  bundle.  Half  way 
up  the  ascent  stood  Kharko,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hand  and  gazing  up  at  the  sky. 

The  scattered  band  of  girls  had  overtaken  Opanas 
and  his  oxen.  They  were  flying  along  like  lunatics 
and  Opanas  was  staring  straight  up  at  the  sky  as 
he  lay  in  his  cart.  Though  his  heart  was  kind,  his 
eyes  were  blind  with  vodka,  and  his  tongue  was  as 
heavy  as  lead.  There  was  no  one,  no  one,  who  would 
cry:  Drop  it,  it  is  mine! 


290          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

And  there  lay  the  village.  There  was  the  tavern, 
closed  for  the  night;  there  stood  the  sleeping  cot- 
tages, and  there  lay  the  gardens.  There,  too,  stood 
the  tall  poplar  tree  and  the  widow's  little  khata.  Old 
Prisia  and  her  daughter  were  sitting  on  a  bench  at 
the  door,  weeping  and  embracing  one  another.  And 
why  were  they  weeping?  Was  it  because  next  day 
the  miller  was  going  to  drive  them  out  of  their  native 
hut? 

The  miller's  heart  leaped.  At  least  these  two 
might  give  him  a  kind  thought !  He  plucked  up  cour- 
age and  shouted: 

"Don't  cry,  Galya ;  don't  cry,  little  sweetheart !  I'll 
forgive  you  all  your  debts  and  the  interest,  too !  Oh, 
I'm  in  trouble,  in  worse  trouble  than  you  are.  The 
Evil  One  is  carrying  me  away  as  a  spider  carries  a 
little  fly." 

Tender  and  sensitive  is  the  heart  of  a  girl!  It 
did  not  seem  possible  that  Galya  could  have  heard 
the  miller's  cry  from  such  a  great  distance,  but  she 
shuddered  nevertheless,  and  raised  her  dark,  weeping 
eyes  to  heaven. 

"Farewell,  farewell,  my  beautiful  black  eyes,"  the 
miller  sighed,  and  at  that  instant  he  saw  the  girl's 
hands  clutch  her  breast  and  heard  her  rend  the  air 
with  a  piercing  scream: 

"Drop  it,  foul  fiend  !    Drop  it,  it  is  mine !" 

The  sound  tore  at  the  devil's  ears  like  the  mighty 
swing  of  a  brandished  chain.  His  wings  fluttered 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          291 

feebly,  his  claws  relaxed  their  hold,  and  Philip  floated 
down  like  a  feather,  turning  from  side  to  side. 

The  devil  dropped  after  him  like  a  stone.  But  as 
soon  as  he  reached  him  and  grabbed  him  afresh, 
Galya  shouted  again : 

"Drop  it,  accursed  one,  it  is  mine !" 

The  devil  dropped  the  miller,  and  once  more  the 
poor  man  floated  downward.  So  it  happened  three 
times,  while  the  marsh  lying  between  the  mill  and  the 
village  spread  ever  wider  and  wider  beneath  them. 

Splash!  The  miller  fell  into  the  soft  mud  with 
such  a  bump  that  the  bog  bounced  as  if  it  had  been 
on  springs,  and  threw  the  miller  ten  feet  into  the  air. 
He  fell  down  again,  jumped  up,  and  took  to  his  heels 
helter-skelter  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 
As  he  ran  he  screamed  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  feeling 
every  second  that  the  devil  was  going  to  grab  him. 

He  reached  the  first  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  the  vil- 
lage, flew  the  hedge  at  a  bound,  and  found  himself 
in  the  middle  of  the  widow's  cottage.  Here  he  came 
to  his  senses  for  the  first  time. 

"Well,  I  am  in  your  cottage,  thank  God !"  he  said. 

Just  think  of  it,  good  people,  what  a  prank  he  had 
played !  There  he  was  early  in  the  morning,  before 
sunrise,  before  even  the  cows  had  been  driven  out  to 
pasture,  bareheaded,  barefooted,  in  rags,  plunging 
into  the  hut  of  two  unmarried  women,  a  widow  and 
a  young  girl!  Yes,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  hat- 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

less  was  a  small  matter ;  it  was  lucky  indeed  he  hadn't 
lost  something  else  on  the  way ;  if  he  had,  he  would 
have  disgraced  the  poor  women  forever!  And  on 
top  of  it  all  what  did  he  say?  "Thank  God,  I  am 
in  your  cottage!" 

The  old  woman  could  only  wave  her  arms,  but 
Galya  jumped  up  in  her  nightgown  from  a  bench, 
threw  on  a  dress,  and  cried  to  the  miller: 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  you  wicked  man?  Are 
you  so  drunk  that  you  can't  find  your  own  hut,  and 
so  come  rushing  into  ours,  hey?" 

But  the  miller  stood  in  front  of  her  looking  at  her 
with  gentle  if  slightly  staring  eyes,  and  said : 

"Come  on,  hit  me  as  hard  as  you  can !" 

And  she  hit  him  once :  bang ! 

"Hit  me  again !" 

So  she  hit  him  again. 

"That's  right.    Do  you  want  to  hit  me  any  more?" 

So  she  hit  him  a  third  time.  Then,  when  she  saw 
that  not  only  did  he  not  mind,  but  stood  there  look- 
ing at  her  with  gentle  eyes,  she  threw  up  her  hands 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"Oi,  misery  me,  poor  orphan  that  I  am,  who  will 
come  to  my  help  ?  Oi,  what  a  man  this  is !  Isn't  it 
enough  for  him  that  he  has  deceived  a  young  girl 
like  me,  and  that  he  wants  to  turn  Turk,  and  has 
made  every  one  gossip  about  me,  and  disgraced  me 
before  the  whole  village?  Look  at  him,  look  at  him, 
good  people !  I  have  hit  him  three  times  and  he 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          293 

won't  even  turn  away.  Oi,  what  can  I  do  with  a  man 
like  him,  tell  me,  somebody,  do !" 

But  the  miller  asked : 

"Are  you  going  to  hit  me  again  or  not?  Tell  me 
truly.  If  you  aren't,  I'm  going  to  sit  down  on  that 
bench,  because  I'm  tired." 

Galya's  hands  were  approaching  the  miller  again, 
but  the  old  woman  guessed  there  was  something  out 
of  the  ordinary  about  the  business,  and  said  to  her 
daughter : 

"Wait  a  bit,  child !  Why  do  you  go  on  slapping 
the  man's  neck  without  even  stopping  to  ask  him  a 
question?  Can't  you  see  that  the  lad's  a  little  bit 
off  his  head?  Tell  me,  neighbour,  where  did  you  come 
from  so  suddenly,  and  what  do  you  mean  by  saying: 
Thank  God  I  am  in  your  cottage,  when  you  know 
you  oughtn't  to  be  here  at  all?" 

The  miller  rubbed  his  eyes  and  said: 

"Tell  me  the  honest  truth,  Auntie,  am  I  asleep? 
Am  I  still  alive?  Has  one  night  or  one  year  passed 
since  yesterday  evening?  And  did  I  come  here  from 
the  mill  or  did  I  drop  from  the  sky?" 

"Tut,  tut,  man!  Cross  yourself  with  your  left 
hand !  What  nonsense  you're  talking.  You  must 
have  been  dreaming!" 

"I  don't  know,  good  mother,  I  don't  know.  I  can't 
make  head  or  tail  of  it  myself." 

He  was  about  to  sit  down  on  a  bench,  when  he 
caught  sight  through  the  window  of  Yankel  the  inn- 


294  THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

keeper,  crawling  along  with  a  huge  bundle  on  his 
back.  The  miller  jumped  up,  pointed  toward  the 
window,  and  asked  the  two  women: 

"Who  is  that  walking  along  there?" 

"Why,  that's  our  Yankel!" 

"And  what  is  he  carrying?" 

"A  bundle  from  the  city." 

"Then  why  do  you  say  I've  been  dreaming?  Don't 
you  see  that  the  Jew  has  come  back?  I  saw  him  at 
the  mill  a  moment  ago,  carrying  that  very  same 
bundle." 

"And  why  shouldn't  he  have  come  back?" 

"Because  the  devil  carried  him  off  last  year.  Kha- 
pun,  you  know." 

Well,  in  a  word,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  amaze- 
ment when  the  miller  told  of  all  that  had  happened 
to  him.  And  in  the  meanwhile  a  crowd  was  begin- 
ning to  collect  in  the  road  in  front  of  the  cottage; 
the  people  looked  in  at  the  window,  and  began  making 
slanderous  comments. 

"Look  at  that !"  they  said.  "There's  a  nice  state 
of  affairs !  The  miller  comes  tearing  across  the  fields 
without  a  hat,  without  boots,  all  ragged  and  torn, 
and  runs  straight  into  the  widow's  cottage,  and  there 
he  sits  with  them  now!" 

"Hey!  Tell  us,  good  man,  whom  have  you  come 
to  see  all  dressed  up  like  that?  Is  it  Old  Prisia,  or 
young  Galya?" 

You  will  agree,  I  am  sure,  that  no  one  can  allow 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          295 

a  poor  girl  to  be  gossiped  about  like  that.  The  miller 
was  simply  obliged  to  marry  her.  But  Philip  has 
confessed  to  me  many  a  time  himself  that  he  had 
always  loved  the  widow's  Galya,  and  that  after  the 
night  when  she  rescued  him  from  the  foul  fiend's 
clutches,  she  grew  so  dear  to  him  that  he  wouldn't 
have  let  himself  be  driven  away  from  her  with  a  stick. 

They  are  living  at  the  mill  now,  and  already  have 
several  children.  The  miller  has  forgotten  his  inn 
and  no  longer  lends  money  at  interest.  And  when- 
ever a  voice  in  his  heart  whispers  to  him  to  wish 
Yankel  the  Jew  out  of  the  village  to  the  devil,  he 
only  makes  a  contemptuous  gesture. 

"And  the  inn?"  He  used  sometimes  to  ask  people 
after  his  adventure.  "Will  it  still  remain?" 

"Of  course  the  inn  will  remain.  What  should 
become  of  it?" 

"But  who  will  keep  it?  Perhaps  you  are  thinking 
of  doing  it  yourself?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  I  am." 

And  at  that  the  miller  would  only  whistle. 


XI 


Yes,  that  is  the  adventure  that  befell  the  miller. 
Such  a  strange  adventure  it  was  that  to  this  day 
no  one  has  decided  whether  it  really  happened  or  not. 
If  you  say  it  was  all  a  falsehood,  I  can  answer  that 


296          THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT 

the  miller  was  not  a  man  to  tell  lies.  Then,  Gavrilo 
the  workman  is  still  living  at  the  mill,  and  though 
he  confesses  himself  that  he  was  thoroughly  drunk 
that  night,  he  remembers  clearly  that  the  miller 
opened  the  door  for  him,  and  that  his  master's  face 
was  whiter  than  flour.  And  Yankel  came  back  at 
dawn,  and  Opanas  reached  home  drunk  and  without 
his  boots,  so  it  seems  as  if  the  miller  could  not  really 
have  dreamt  it  after  all. 

But  then,  again,  take  this:  how  could  it  be  true, 
when  the  whole  affair  would  have  taken  a  year  to 
happen  and  yet  the  miller  ran  barefoot  into  Galya's 
cottage  the  very  next  morning?  A  great  many 
people  actually  saw  him,  and  wondered  why  the 
miller  was  tearing  barefoot  across  the  fields  to  visit 
the  girl. 

The  best  plan,  I  think,  is  not  to  look  too  closely 
into  the  story.  Whether  it  happened  or  whether  it 
didn't,  I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice.  If  you  know 
a  miller,  or  any  man  who  keeps  two  taverns  and  who 
abuses  the  Jews  and  yet  fleeces  the  people  like  sheep, 
tell  your  friend  this  story.  I  recommend  it  to  you ; 
the  plan  has  been  tried.  Whether  he  gives  up  his 
business  or  not,  he  will  at  least  bring  you  a  mugful 
of  vodka  that,  for  once,  won't  be  diluted  with  water. 

There  are  people,  of  course,  and  this  too  has  been 
found  to  be  true,  who  will  growl  at  you  like  dogs 
as  soon  as  you  tell  them  the  story.  People  like  them 
I  answer  with  these  words :  Grumble  and  growl  as 


THE  DAY  OF  ATONEMENT          297 

much  as  you  like,  but  I  give  you  fair  warning:  take 
care  the  same  thing  doesn't  happen  to  you ! 

And  I  say  this  because,  you  see,  the  people  of 
Novokamensk  have  more  than  once  seen  that  very 
same  devil  again.  Ever  since  he  has  had  a  taste  of 
the  miller,  he  doesn't  want  to  go  home  without  some 
dainty  morsel.  So  he  flies  about,  peering  in  every  di- 
rection like  a  lost  bird. 

Therefore,  take  care,  good  people,  that  something 
evil  doesn't  befall  you. 

And  now,  good-bye !    If  I  haven't  told  the  story  to 
suit  your  taste,  don't  think  ill  of  me,  I'm  only 
plain  man. 


YT\r\¥»XTT  A    1TWWABV    T  r»S    AXHF.T.ES 


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